


The Blodig Skog

by GalaxyThreads



Series: She's A Terror, We're The Victims [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Attempt to put the Odin-fam back together, Brother-Sister Relationships, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt Thor (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki is a mess, Magic, Mild Horror, Mild unreliable narrator -- Loki is traumatized, Minor Injuries, Mystery, Odin's B+ Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Permanent Injury, Plague, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Thor (2011), Protective Thor (Marvel), Self-Harm, Shapeshifting, Sif is a good bro, Supernatural Elements, The warriors three are a good bro, Thor (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thor and Loki need a slap over the head, Whump, he's trying, sick thor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads
Summary: The Weeping Siren, though dead, haunts them. A restless pest that drew the Warriors Four and Loki together, but may very well succeed in pulling Odin's sons apart. When Vanaheim's haunted forest, the Blodig Skog's, magic begins to spread like a curse, the five have no choice but to return to the very place this whole mess started. (No slash, no smut) [Sequel to the Weeping Siren] (DISCONTINUED)
Relationships: Loki & Sif (Marvel), Loki & The Warriors Three, Loki & Thor (Marvel), Thor & Warriors Three
Series: She's A Terror, We're The Victims [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671046
Comments: 96
Kudos: 296





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Privet, my stars! Thank you for taking a look at this! I hope you enjoy; I have, as per usual, plenty of angst.
> 
> This is a sequel to my previous story, The Weeping Siren. Reading that before you read this will defiantly help, but it's not necessary. Just know that the Warriors Three and Sif are closer to Loki now. And went through some generally not-great stuff.
> 
> This was requested by CHATNOIRandPlagg, who I must thank for their patience. I'm sorry that this took so long to get up, my friend!
> 
> Warnings: Some violence, Post traumatic stress disorder, mild supernatural elements, bullying, self-harm, references to depression, suicidal thoughts, past child abuse. If further warnings are needed, they'll be posted at the top of chapters. No slash, no smut, no incest, no non-con. Just a slight heads up, this story is going to deal with some heavy topics and I ask/encourage everyone to remain as safe as possible. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing
> 
> Pairings: Mild Odin/Frigga
> 
> Basic-ish age frame: Volstagg: 20; Hogun and Thor: 19; Sif and Fandral: 18; Loki: 16
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on fanfiction.net under the penname of "LodestarJumper." 
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

* * *

_"Try not to drown," t_ he creature whispers and shoves him over the edge. His initial reaction is panic, a desperate sort of frantic, flapping wave that he does with his arms unnecessarily. He's not going to get himself to swim this way, only cause the sinking to happen faster. He tries to steady himself, to _calm down_ , but all his breath escapes his lungs and slips towards the surface. He's helpless to stop it.

The water, unlike what he'd first suspected, is not freezing cold. He thought it would be, because it looked so crystal-like. So clear. So innocent. He was wrong, though. It's _hot._ Unbearably hot. His skin feels like it's boiling, and his eyes are burning, even behind the closed lids. He tries to kick up with his feet, but the water is too heavy. Too incapable of movement. It's like he's trying to push through solid rock, rather than a fluid.

He panics.

He's can't breathe, but he can't find his way towards the surface. His clothing is sticking to his skin, weighing him down. He is going to drown.

" _You misunderstand my intentions,"_ the creature says, laughing slightly. She glances back at him once, her eyes dark. There's a weight that's settled there, almost like regret, but he's not stupid enough to believe it. " _I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a good mother. What type of mother would I be to wound you so?"_

He feels his eyebrow lift. " _I wouldn't go declaring it out of character for you."_

The skin around the creature's eyes grows tight. She's smiling with venom, and turns fully around to face him, a small glass vial in her grip. She holds it out to him like it's a gift. " _Drink this."_

He stares at her, not twitching a muscle. He's been poisoned before. He's not going to take any chances, even if this is supposed to spare Fandral. Her eyes narrow the slightest bit, that faint smile twitching on the edge of her lips. He would learn, later, that it meant she was angry, but he didn't know it then.

" _No."_ He states blankly.

" _No?"_ She sighs softly, turning away from him. " _Well, I suppose that dear Fandral will have to be up to work in the morning, poor child—"_

The wet rattle of Fandral's lungs and his pale face flashes through his mind. Sif's open panic and the Volstagg's attempts to calm the children to ignore his own hyperventilating. His teeth grit and he snatches the glass vial from her, twisting off the cap. She looks smug, and for a moment he's tempted to throw it at her face.

He doesn't.

He's afraid of the outcome, and feels like a coward. _Thor_ would never succumb to this witch's desires, even if it meant the cost of his own life. He hesitates all the same before lifting it to his lips, self preservation demanding that he cast the bluish liquid away and _run._ But where will he go? With Aetheitin in his system he's practically lame against the creature and her defenses.

 _Fandral._ Those idiots will be the death of him. If this kills him, he will haunt them.

He forces his wrist to tip, and the liquid touches his tongue. The taste is faint, almost as if it's an afterthought rather than a prominent feature, and he feels slightly sick. He's studied potions before, he knows that the stronger the taste the weaker the concoction. There's less magic involved, so there's not much _to_ mask the taste. The strongest magic-laced poisons have no taste at all.

Whatever this is, the creature has spared no expense.

When he's finished with the bottle, he _does_ throw it at her head. His aim, sharped from years with a bow and throwing knives, holds true. The creature apparently wasn't expecting it, because the glass smacks into her forehead and she releases a shriek of pain and surprise. He allows himself a moment of satisfaction, but it's quickly tarnished when she leans down and picks up the intact vile before looking up at him, face alight with fury.

" _Is that any way to treat your mother!?"_

" _No."_ He concedes, smug, " _Of course not. I would never throw anything at my mother."_

He lets it hang. Let's her fury grow to frustration as his implications settle inside her wild thoughts. He smirks faintly, but lifts a hand to his throat and rubs at it slightly when it feels tight. His chest is compressing, and his vision is growing slightly hazy. He tries a deep breath, but it doesn't help anything.

A blurred figure steps into his line of sight and his chest constricts with irrational panic.

 _It's a drug,_ he tries to tell himself. But it doesn't help his body's heightened flare or adrenaline and the more powerful urge he has to flee. The creature moves forward and he backs up, suddenly needing to be _away._

_Coward._

" _I never did tell you, did I?"_ her voice doesn't sound right, blurred and pitched, " _But my children really are so lovely. They dug that stream for us all, you know."_ The river. It doesn't look handcrafted with all the rocks, soil, tree roots and...things that shovels wouldn't make it past in the hands of youth. She made them _dig_ a _river?_ " _But before they did that, we had to get our water somewhere."_

He keeps pushing until his back hits something and his entire body lurches. He grabs for his magic, but there's nothing there but a gaping _hole_ and it hurts more than any physical wound could have. He gasps, curling around his stomach, his back pushed against the solid stone behind him. He needs to run. He has to get away. He can't—

_Can't—_

" _We had a well. Dried up now save a few hands of water."_ She says, and dread seeps into his stomach. His entire body rigid with a sudden realization on what he's leaning against. What she _led_ him to. When he'd agreed to take the punishment for Fandral's illness, he'd thought it would be a few more hours of hard labor. Perhaps a beating. He'd braced himself for that, not _this_. He'd only grown more confused when the woman had guided him far away from the basement, from the field, from her dwelling—everything.

Hands grab his shoulders and he flinches back from them, trying to scramble away, but it's fruitless. He wants to start screaming, but he thinks he might already be.

" _Try not to drown,"_ the creature whispers and shoves him over the edge of the crumpling well.

He falls—down, down into the never ending blackness, but something inside him insists that he should have hit the bottom by now. That it wasn't ever this deep and he could see moonlight flickering through if he tried. But he keeps falling, and he doesn't stop, his heart a scattered mess inside his chest and entire being hoping for relief that isn't going to come.

_He keeps falling._

Then he smashes into the hard earth of the bottom, water splashing against his face and through his clothing, soaking him. His head is plunged beneath the surface for a moment, and when he struggles, scrambling to yank it out, he can't remember which way is up.

_He's going to drown._

_She told him not to, and he's going to do it anyway._

_Try not to dr—_

Loki kicks his way to the surface and his head breaks free of the frigid water. He gasps for air desperately, ripping his eyelids apart in a desperate effort to _see_ something other than the ever-pressing darkness. The twin suns beat down on him immediately, and though it can't have been more than a minute at most since he fell, it feels like an eternity.

The brightness hurts.

His chest aches.

Loki eyes the shore of with trepidation, but awkwardly shoves his way to it; limbs unused to the movement. He used to be better at swimming, he would do it frequently before... _before,_ but now some days drinking water is hard enough. Relief crashes through him hard enough to make him wheeze when his feet smack against sand. He stumbles to his hands and knees as soon as he's on dry ground, coughing. His clothing sticks to his skin, his hair plastered to the sides of his face. He can't breathe, still. He's coughing like he's dying, even though he _knows_ he didn't inhale any of the fluid.

"They were right. You _do_ look like a drowned rat when wet." Someone sneers, and Loki feels his hands clench around the moist sand beneath his fingertips. The coarse grain is like daggers against his skin, and it's a relief.

"Come now," another voice says cryptically, "it was barely a little splash. You sound like you're dying."

Their jeering doesn't stop just because he's trying to remember how to put air into his lungs.

"Good grief, is that his _spine?_ Do you have no muscle, my prince?" another questions mockingly. He sneers the title as Loki has long since grown accustomed to, but sounds bored at the same time.

Loki's teeth snap together. He spits water onto the ground between his pale hands and lift a shaking, sand-covered hand to try and swipe hair back from his face so he can see better. His attempt fails, sandy black hair falling in front of his eyes. The movement of his jostled arm causes his sedir to pulse. It's burning beneath his skin, demanding release. It's angry. Angrier than Loki can ever allow himself to be.

"Clearly not," the high-pitched wail of a female sing-songs, "we'd see it then, wouldn't we?"

_Do they have to—!?_

The tip of a sword lightly touches is hand, as if afraid he'll bite something. He doesn't react, trying to calm the swirling beast inside his chest. It feels unfamiliar to him, as if he hasn't been levitating items since before he could talk. "You yield, then? You've put down your sword. In a way. That does beg the question—can anyone _see_ it in the river?"

Someone snickers. "Really. You'd think that you'd stabbed him instead of shoved."

The sword pokes at him again. "Are you still with us? Do I not claim victory?"

"Maybe he's having another fit!" A female voice suggests, upper class lip seeping through her tone. She and her other companion were servants who'd stopped to watch the battle like it was some sort of grand tournament instead of a training match. "The Norns know that he needs to be locked away where he won't hurt anyone instead of among the sane!"

Loki remembers to breathe, and exhales sharply.

"Boo!" Something screeches next to his ear, and Loki nearly goes toppling back into the water again in his effort to _get away_. It's less so much the sudden sound as it is the _movement_ that startles him. Laughter bursts out among the group once more. "Ooh," the boy lifts his fingers, dangling them, "I'm the creature come back for what's left of your soul, huh? She's dead, you fool!"

_He knows that._

"Allfathers," the swordsman sighs and draws his weapon back like there could be no worse fate in this universe than the one that has befallen him, "this is the future of our realm. A crippled prince who hasn't seen the training ground in months and a mad, glib-tongued _snake_ who can't handle a little dip in the river!"

"Our beloved Thor has been lost to the madness of this creature!"

"And now the insanity of the Prince is going to finish him off!"

Before he can think, before he can process, Loki's hand shoots out and he grasps the origin of the voice with sedir, wrapping an invisible hand around their throat and _squeezing_. The delighted laughter stops abruptly as a high-pitched gasp takes its place. Loki's arm is trembling, but his sedir isn't confined to the constraints of his body.

He lifts his head, staring at the group with narrowed eyes. The laughter has stopped, the delighted chortles of their amusement ceased as they stare between him and the redhead with growing horror.

_Not so funny now, is it?_

Loki's hand twitches involuntarily, and the redhead jerks. His hands are raised towards his throat, lifted at the invisible hand like he can peel it away. Loki wants to laugh. Sedir doesn't work like that. For all he's been claimed insane, _Loki knows that much_. Water is dripping from his clothing, running down his face. Too much water, it's choking him. The water is a liar. It caresses where it should stab, soothes when it should bite.

_Try not to drown._

He wants to be sick. He _might_ be sick. He parts his lips to speak, but he can't get any words out. He wants to yell at them all to shut up, but there's nothing there but a desperate whine.

"He _is_ having a fit!" One of the maids whispers in a despaired screech, grabbing onto the arm of the nearest soldier like he can save her soul, "Someone call for a healer! He's going to kill us in his madness!"

The redhead gasps, his face beginning to turn shades. Loki staggers up to his feet, stumbling despite his best efforts. There's seven Aesir, including the redhead, which means that no one has gone running for help. They were supposed to be running practice rounds, but it would appear that they forgot about their swords, instead standing there gaping at him like he's some sort of horrendous beast.

But their slander, and everyone else's, is nothing new. Even before the creature's trial. Before he had to be _excused_ from the public execution because he was a coward. Frigga says that it was for the best that he "wasn't in the state to see his captor so soon after the torture", but he's not an idiot. He knows what it looks like, even if there's nothing that can be done.

Prince Loki, who can't even see his enemies to the chopping block, is one of Odin's heirs.

Asgard is humiliated. ( _Thor was there. Thor, who can do no wrong. Loki can't even—)_

"Whoa, snake," one of the men in the group lifts up his hands, trying to placate. They're beyond that now. "This—this isn't a warrant for murder. Just...calm down, aight?"

"Yeah," they sound considerably more uncertain, and Loki wants to laugh. Instead he feels his throat grow hot from tears. "Yeah, just," another man waves his hands, like Loki is some sort of rabid dog he can ease the temper of. And he is an animal to them, isn't he? _Snake Prince,_ everyone calls him.

" _What on the Nine is going on!?"_ the voice startles him, and Loki's hold on the redhead, Hyn, falls. Hyn stumbles onto the green grass, coughing. The other six flutter over him, demanding the state of his health and wellbeing, but Hyn waves them off, scowling up at him. There's the barest edge of a smirk there, though, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut in defeat.

"I leave you alone for _three minutes_ to practice your form, and now you're trying to murder each other?" Tyr sounds angry, which isn't anything new. Tyr usually sounds angry. He's a brusk man with an even brisker attitude.

Loki's teeth grit together.

"Loki attacked all of them!" one of the girls shouts, "Me and Mis came over to help, but he was already out of control." To add to the weight of her story, she breaks into hysterical sobs, and Loki can almost see as she buries herself against the nearest man and offers her crocodile tears.

_And they call him the liar._

"Yeah!" one of the other youths agrees quickly, likely grateful that the servant girl was capable of spinning falsities. His enthusiasm is so quick, but false that the deafest of men could hear the quaver of mistruth within his voice.

High Commander Tyr stops, somewhere off to Loki's left. The group is quiet, and Try releases a breath before saying, flatly, "Loki."

He has no rank here. Tyr doesn't care about the heritage of his troops, Loki could be the All-Father himself, but if he's serving beneath this High Commander, he's just Loki. It makes him uncomfortable. Raw and vulnerable, like he's been stripped of an outer skin and forced to lay himself bare before the man.

He hides behind his titles, for all he hates them.

Loki chances opening his eyes and twists slightly to look back. As expected, Tyr is on his left. His red hair is slicked back, but the short beard is frizzing within the humidity of the day. The heat that had previously made Loki sick enough to affect his form beforehand. Enough that Hyn managed to shove him into the river instead of just disoriented him.

_Try not to drown._

Loki parts his lips slowly, "What would you have me say, Commander?" he questions.

Tyr's eyes narrow. "An explanation would be nice—"

"We gave you one!" the servant girl wails. Loki wants to hit her. It's not a common feeling, and his sudden violence startles him.

"—You don't normally attack people without provocation." Tyr continues. His patience is thinning further, getting sharp and frustrated around the edges. Loki almost wants to keep pushing, just to see how far he has to _go_ before it snaps all together. But because he's not stupid, he doesn't.

His voice is bland, "They shoved me into the river." He gestures towards himself for evidence to back his statement. Wail all they want, Loki _is_ soaking wet. Tyr put them near the river because he thought that it would be a good real-life battleground.

Loki had bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming when the commander suggested it. He hates water.

_Try not to—_

"So you nearly strangled Hyn?" High Commander Tyr lifts one bushy eyebrow. His hard face is tight. "That I struggle to believe."

Well, he _should._ Loki's not about to admit that he's seeing things again. It's been more than half a year since the creature's execution. Loki should be _fine_ now. The Warriors Three and Sif have bounced back as well as they can. They struggle, but they aren't like _him._ He, who spent _no more time there_ than they did, but seems so much worse off. He knows what people say about him now. He's Odin's insane son, a "pity that the boy barely reached coming of age before losing himself", _unstable._

_(And maybe they're right.)_

"I don't like being wet." Loki's humor falls flat. In the awkward silence that follows, he swipes his long bangs away from his face, looking away. He catches the eye of one of the youths and they sneer at him angrily. Loki's temper flares again, but he forces himself to swallow it down where it won't damage anyone permanently but _him._

They claimed they do this for Thor (they always do, because _Loki_ went and got himself lost in the woods and if he hadn't, Thor would have been _fine)_ , but they slander him at a moment's notice? His brother doesn't— _shouldn't—_ receive the treatment that Loki does. Asgard has ever been the golden prince's faithful coddler, just because of his leg doesn't mean he should lose that. Thor _needs_ that support. He needs to bask in the warm sun's rays; he knows nothing else.

Tyr looks more frustrated than he did before Loki spoke.

It must be a gift that he can do this so often to people. Truly.

The High Commander turns to the others, and Loki knows he's lost the small fragmented chance he had to walk away from this without baring the full weight of the blame. If he wasn't dripping, if they hadn't _shoved_ him, then maybe he would have been able to cling to his silvertongue. As is, here they are.

"Will someone—" Tyr starts up again, but a louder voice overshadows the High Commander, shouting Loki's name. He turns towards it by habit and feels his teeth set together even harder despite the relief that crashes into him all the same. He dreads her arrival, but welcomes it all the same.

Sif comes to a breathless stop in front of him, stopping sharply only to grab at his shoulders. He flinches back from the contact, but she holds fast, staring him up and down. The weight of her stare is no comfort, and he doubts he'll ever grow accustomed to it. "What happened? I heard the shouting. Are you hale—?"

"I'm fine." Loki interrupts. It comes between gritted teeth, and he watches her eyebrow lift with disbelief before something seems to register and she draws her gloved hands back, making a face. Her eyes linger on his hair before she comes to the startling conclusion that "You're wet."

"Hadn't noticed." He mutters. She rolls her eyes in annoyance, huffing slightly.

" _Why_ are you wet?" Sif presses. When he stubbornly offers no answers, her head tips, staring towards the seven youth behind him. He can see her slowly putting together pieces of a fragmented puzzle, but he offers no guidance. They shoved him. They didn't...it's not like sparring is supposed to be gentle taps and giggling. It's _meant_ to be shoves and bruises. He just overreacted.

As he is prone to.

_Emotional._

"Loki attacked us!" Hyn exclaims, but his voice is wheezy. Loki suppresses a wince, but only just. "We shoved him into the river to protect ourselves, and when he crawled his way out he tried to strangle me! He's mad I tell you! He needs a cell, not a coddler!"

Loki's jaw tightens and he looks away for a brief moment. His chest hurts. There's too much _there._ He wants a release, but he can't...

A chorus of agreed murmurs sound within the group and Loki watches with hesitant wariness as Sif's jaw tightens slightly. There's a hardness to her eyes that promises someone's broken nose and Loki grabs her upper arm before she can do anything rash.

"Sif—"

"Don't." Sif rips herself free from the group and stalks past the High Commander to the other Aesir. Tyr makes a grunt of disagreement, but beyond shifting his weight slightly, makes no move to stop her. Loki wraps his arms around his stomach and digs his nails into his back. He _hates this._ He hates that she doesn't think he can handle himself, hates that she flutters around him like some sort of broken bird, hates that she—

 _Now_ he's just being petty.

But sometimes he wishes that they could re-settle smoothly into their previous arrangement: they ignored each other, only interacting with strictly necessary. They'd settled into something professional before the _creature_ happened. Loki was _okay_ with that. He doesn't...he doesn't know how to _handle_ her now.

How to handle any of them.

He doesn't know how to _have_...It. Them. Friends. Even after all this time.

"What did you do?" Sif demands, jabbing her finger into Hyn's chest. A part of Loki, not shaken and screaming, is partially amused by this. He's been on the end of her fury too many times to count, for both real and imagined slights, he knows the fear that's flashing freely across Hyn's face.

"Who said that _we_ did anything!?" another man demands. He's blond, and sporting a rather unflattering face of facial hair. Is he _attempting_ to grow a beard on his neck for the Norn's sake?

"I do." Sif's hand rests on her sword. She's sporting a confidence he envies. "Because this is sparing you dimwit. Loki was _supposed_ to attack you. That's how this _works._ Who did this?"

"He tripped, Lady Sif." One of the girls murmurs. "He's clumsy enough as it is without wet earth to help with that."

Loki digs his nails tighter. It's beginning to pinch skin, but the pain is a relief.

Sif doesn't laugh, but a few try for hesitant smiles that fall quickly. The warrior's back is so straight it looks nearly painful. Loki doesn't know whether to stop her, or watch. It's the strangest sensation to him to _not_ have to defend himself.

And he hates it.

Sif's head turns, likely staring the entire group down. Her voice is still so calm, which makes this worse. " _Who_ shoved him?" No one answers. Sif pulls on the hilt of her weapon, beginning to draw. Loki takes a step forward as High Commander Tyr does, prepared to stop her from doing anything stupid. She's so much more like Thor than she realizes. Hotheaded. Impulsive. _Angry._

"I did!" A Aesir exclaims that Loki knows for a fact _wasn't_ the perpetrator. It was Hyn because that's who he was fighting. The Aesir speaking was on the other side of the group when Hyn's hands shoved against his arm and Loki toppled. "It was me. No need to start taking off hands, my lady."

"I was rather thinking fingers, but I'm not fastidious." Sif takes a step back and goes quiet. She shoves her sword back into its sheath and Loki sees several of the Aesir openly relax. Idiots. Her fists are tight by her side, and Loki can almost see the calculating shift in her gaze as she determines where hitting the Aesir would hurt the most.

 _This is completely unnecessary._ It's like she said. It's sparing. And they just _shoved_ him, it's not the worst thing that's been done to him. A river of water won't be the death— _try not to drown—_ of him. His jaw is beginning to hurt from how tightly it's clenched.

Loki steps up behind her, managing to grab hold of her shoulder before she can do anything. "Sif." He keeps his voice quiet. "Stop. It's nothing. We can go."

"I think not."

How much trouble would he be in if he punched her? Just this once? Probably a bountiful amount, he's already reacted wrongly once today. No need to add to the growing pile. Loki's shoulders slump thinking about the talking to he's going to get later.

 _Sedir is not a weapon of violence,_ Frigga will say, ignoring everything he's just tried to explain, _it is a tool for healing and creation._

 _Why do you never think?_ Father will mutter, before heaving the great sigh that _only_ Loki can make him draw, and then he'll begin to talk. Father will go on and on, as if somehow speaking _at_ him enough will leave him properly castigated and repentant. It doesn't.

"Sif. Please." Loki tries. Her hazel-brown eyes catch his and her gaze softens almost immediately. He's already been the idiot today. There's no need to drag her down with him. Her posture relaxes somewhat, and Loki turns away in relief, prepared to leave the river _far_ behind them, but Sif lashes out. He wasn't watching her feet, and he suspects she knew that.

The edge of her boot catches the shin of the blame-claiming Aesir and he crumples with a loud surprised shout. Given what Loki has seen her do on the actual field of battle, Sif was holding back considerably. Loki suspects the worst that the Aesir got was a deep bruise, and not a snapped bone. His jaw tightens all the same, irritated.

He side glances her, but the woman doesn't even have the audacity to look guilty.

"Lady Sif," High Commander Tyr sighs, "please stop damaging my students."

Sif scoffs and gestures towards three, "They were in Thor's class. They're long beyond your guidance."

"They're increasing their rank and therefore have to do more years of service." The Commander explains tiredly and glances towards the group. "Get him up. It's just a bruise." The Aesir glances at him, eyes narrowed, "I'd rather you left for the day, Loki. I'll inform your parents of what happened; regardless of what they say, don't come back until next week."

Loki's face heats with humiliation, his fists curling. Can he react like a normal living creature for _once_ in his life? He shakes off the thoughts and forces himself to center in the present as High Commander Tyr stalks off with a huff. Clearly, he's determined that none of the wounds life threatening, and will continue to shout at other soldiers.

"Oh, she broke something!" the Aesir wails, gripping at his calf. The group is fluttering, obviously unsure whether to help Hyn or this idiot first. Hyn, much to Loki's quiet relief, seems mostly undamaged. There isn't even any evidence of Loki's mistreatment on his neck. "I can feel bone rattling within my muscle! Cruel witch!"

Sif smiles. "Indeed." She turns to him, gesturing away from the group, "After you then, my prince."

Loki turns on his heel and stalks off into the grass, ignoring the sharp jibes the group yells after him. Sif's hand lands on his shoulder, and he lets her keep it there until they're from view. Once they've entered the familiar arcs of the beginning of the palace courtyard, he shrugs it off and turns to her, attempting to breathe through the compression in his chest. The suns are helping dry him, but not by much.

The loss of the outside tension has made the inner one worse. He's wet. He's wet and afraid and _why is Mother being quiet,_ she promised she would talk to him, she promised that the dark wouldn't...wouldn't...He's dripping. The world is blurring.

"You didn't have to do that." Loki snaps. "Why did you? I was handling the situation perfectly fine by myself."

_He can't breathe._

Sif draws back, but only just. "Clearly. I was trying to help you. It's my _duty_ in case you've forgotten."

To stalk him, she means. Because now she has to be involved of every gritty part of his life whereas before they barely spoke to each other. Before.

Before it.

Before _her._

"You didn't _have_ to take up the position of captain to my guard any more than the Idiots Three were forced to join it!" Loki hisses, his words are getting tighter. His vision doesn't look quite right. "I was handling it...I was...I… _I—_ " he grabs at her shoulders to keep upright, feeling his mask crumple, "—can't breathe. _Sif!"_

He tumbles to his knees, and sees the woman kneel beside him immediately. Her hands grip his shoulders, the pressure tight enough to capture his attention, but not to hurt. The hardness to her face has fled, leaving only concerned sympathy in its wake. "Loki," her voice is soft, "look at me."

He's making hiccuping gasps, and his vision is blurred, but he lifts his head in her direction. "Breathe with me. In for four, out for seven. In…" she does the motion herself, raising her hands to mimic what she's trying to get him to follow. Loki manages to catch her rhythm after a few tries, but can't hold it for long.

_Pathetic._

He buries his head into his hands and bites on his inner cheek to stop himself from screaming. It's been months. He has been free for _weeks,_ so _why_ can't he stop thinking about it? _Why_ is he still trapped here? _What is wrong with him?_

He hears Sif sigh, dropping down next to him. Loki doesn't move. He lets himself crumple, because, though there are few people he trusts to let himself fall apart in front of, Sif was _there._

She doesn't say anything. When they get like this, there isn't much to, is there?

At long last, she murmurs, "What happened?"

Loki scoffs, lifting his head up to grumpily stare at her. "Hyn shoved me. I fell in the river. There's not much more to it." He sets his teeth and looks away, but not before he sees Sif's head tilt slightly in confusion. He hasn't told a soul about what happened in the well. Not Frigga. Not Thor. Not them. He _can't._ Every time he tries to open his mouth, the words fail him. He doesn't even know what to say.

The children who were punished in such a way...they get it, and as much as Loki hates that they _understand,_ it's a relief to not be alone in it.

_Try not to—_

He rubs his forearms, sighing heavily into the air. The column they stopped behind offers some shading, but not enough to ease the sheer misery of the twin suns beating down on them. He hates summer. He hates being wet. He hates Asgard. Hates that he can't escape the shadow of the creature, though she's been dead for so long.

"This...has to do with _her,_ doesn't it, my prince?" Sif's voice is quiet. Loki bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting her for the umpteenth time. It's _Loki._ No matter how many times he's tried to tell her that, she keeps calling him the title. He's used to people saying it in mockery, he doesn't know what to do when people _don't._

Loki looks forward miserably. "Doesn't everything?"

Sif bites on her lower lip. It's clear she agrees, but she won't admit to it. The Weeping Siren is something they avoid discussing with a wide berth. They've barely said a few clipped sentences to each other since the execution. Their ignorance isn't going to make her go away. Even dead she _haunts_ them.

In the way that Hogun hasn't returned to his homeworld since they were rescued, how Fandral is never without a blade anymore, how Volstagg has little appetite, the way that Sif rubs her arm subconsciously when she's thinking, as if trying to ease the pain of her long-healed broken forearm. Thor's constant, prominent limp. Frigga's paranoia. Father's increased temper. The Warriors Four switching their long-held captain status among the army to join his guard.

It's been months.

How much longer do they have to go before she dies in more than body?

Sif gets up to her feet, if a little awkwardly, and holds out her hand. "I think it's better if we leave the past where it belongs, don't you?"

Yes.

But here they are.

Avoidance. Again.

He takes her hand and lets her pull him up to his feet. Loki's only damp now, and, with a whispered—physical words help concentration—spell, removes the rest of the water from his clothing. It hadn't occurred to him to do this until much later. His mind is far to much of a frazzled mess now.

Both of them are quiet as they go forward.

It's in times like this that Loki misses the arguments. At least there was _something_ to fill the void.

000o000

Loki doesn't have an appetite at supper. He spins the food around the plate, but the thought of consuming anything makes him ill. So he lets it sit there and pretends to listen to the quiet conversation between his parents. Thor, on his left, is boredly looking towards the tapestry behind their parents chairs. The small, private family dining room has only one window, and it's behind the side of the table he and his sibling are seated at.

Loki doesn't know what Thor finds so fascinating about the tapestry; he and his sibling have been looking at the same woven cloth for decades. It doesn't change. Loki could draw a picture of the same waterfall behind Mt. Arne with his eyes closed.

The clicking of cutlery comes to a momentary lapse and Loki sees Frigga's lips purse. She shares the briefest look with Father before leaning forward on the table, clasping her hands together. And here it is. The conclusion of Frigga and Father doing their best to pretend they haven't been staring at him all evening. "Are you not hungry tonight, Loki?"

Loki bites on his cheek, giving a slight shrug. The fork makes its way around the rim again, pushing the grape through the fancy looking salad. Realizing that she's waiting for an audible response, he bites back an annoyed sigh and looks up. "Not really." He pauses for a moment before asking, hopefully, "I'm exhausted, may I be excused?"

"No." Father interjects before Frigga can get the chance to.

Loki slumps. So they heard about Hyn then. He braces himself for the inevitable and sees Thor glance towards him. There's the briefest raise of his eyebrows before he asks, "What did you do now?"

Loki's teeth set. He ignores his brother and looks to the other side of the table. Frigga is carefully picking the napkin up from her lap and folding it with a grace Loki doubts he could mimic on his best day. In silence, she sets the napkin next to her plate and clasps her hands together again, resting them on the edge of the table. The white tablecloth creates a stark contrast with her deep blue sleeves.

"Thor," her voice is even, "would you mind stepping outside, please? Your father and I would like to talk to your brother."

Thor's expression flickers. He glances towards Loki for the briefest moment as if hoping that Loki will ask for him to stay, but Loki makes no such movement. He sits in his chair, rigid, and watches as Thor sighs, but gives a nod to Frigga's question and stands. "Of course, Mother. Good even'."

Loki notices that Thor, as he always has since the healing rooms, keeps a firm grip on the rim of the table. It's in an effort to keep his balance.

Loki hates how he can't stop himself from looking down at Thor's leg. The malformation isn't as obvious as it used to be, months of continued treatment from Eir have some-what straightened what is left of the shattered bone. They're _watching_ the injury now, waiting to see if Thor's body will be able to heal itself given the proper medication, or if they'll need to install a permanent brace.

Loki hates the phrase " _watching something"_ ; he's been in enough treatment to know that it means they're putting it on a shelf until it comes exploding off of it. Usually dramatically, and in a way that could have been prevented.

Loki sees Frigga's lips grow tight for a brief moment before Thor manages to right himself and exits the room quietly. His limp makes more noise than any words could have. The obvious sway to his posture, the leaning.

The _brokeness._

The door laps shut behind the elder, and Loki turns to his parents as the weight of their gaze settles on him. Before he can really think about what he's going to say, he blurts, "It was sparring. It's not like I removed a part of his body permanently. He'll be fine. Eventually."

"Loki." Frigga's voice is flat. Her expression is still so carefully constructed to hide away her anger, but Loki isn't a fool. He can see it in how tense her hands are, how she's leaning towards Father. "You _attacked_ with the intent to _kill._ Sedir is not a weapon. It's a tool to heal and create."

"I _know_ that." Loki says between clenched teeth. "Did the High Commander even explain what happened?"

"He did." Father assures, expression growing sharp, "Why do you never _think?"_ he mutters. Loki does his best to repress a flinch, but his father's anger weighs on his shoulders like a physical weight. Crushing him.

Loki's tongue snaps down from the roof of his mouth and, before Father can start on his familiar tirade again, shoves up to his feet. He slaps his hands down on the tabletop.

"I _was_ thinking. I was defending Thor's honor. Why is it that _he_ can beat someone bloody on a battlefield and receive a medal for it, but I shake Hyn around a little and this—" he gestures wildly "—happens?"

"It's not _what_ he did, it's how he did it. Loki." Frigga's tone is disapproving now. "Sedir isn't a _weapon;_ I thought you would know that by now."

They're going in _circles._

"You only think that because you were raised among pacifists!" Loki throws up his hands. "You weren't _there_!"

They never are, but he can't _say_ that. They're the king and queen of the Nine. Expecting more than this once-a-week meal together is more than he should. He's known this since he was young. Yet he can't help _wanting._

Father's jaw has gained a tic, but both remain seated. It makes him feel stupid, and strangely childish, even though he left that part of his life behind a long time ago. Carefully, his father asks, "Tyr said that they most they did was shove you into the river. How could this warrant attack? A strangulation, for that matter?"

"It was _sparing—"_

" _Don't_ use excuses with me, boy!" Father snaps, slapping a fist on the tabletop. Loki flinches back, his breath escaping in a harsh gust. "Your actions can not and _should not_ simply be brushed to the side! This is not the first time one of these...outbursts has happened since the Weeping Siren—" something dangerously close to a squeak slips through Loki's lips at the spoken name "—and unless you manage to pull yourself together, we will be _forced_ to interfere. You're not _well,_ son."

 _Son._ The word slithers into his subconscious and drags up nothing but nausea. His fists clench at his sides. He wants to hold the king's stare, but finds he can't. "Please don't...say that."

"My point proven exactly." Father snaps. Loki chokes, his nails digging into his palms. Not _well?_ Do _they_ think he's as insane as everyone else does? What is _wrong_ with him? _Why can't he get any better?_ Is he _stuck_ like this? Eternally warring with the ghosts that haunt him? Is there no escape? _What does he have to do to make people see him as more than a problem?_

 _"_ Odin," Frigga's voice is sharp. A warning. Frigga rests a hand on her husband's arm before saying, softer, "What your father is _trying_ to say is that we are concerned for you. What happened today is only proof that there's something else going on. If you would talk to us, explain your side…"

"Then you'll still be angry." Loki bites. A nastier part of him wants to sneer that they don't know how to be anything different, but he swallows the words. "What Tyr told you was the truth. I'm _unwell."_ He steps away from the table, intending to slip away from the small confinements, but Frigga rises to her feet.

" _Loki._ Stop. Sit down. We're not done yet. We need to talk about this."

He freezes, wrestling between his urge to _flee,_ but unable to. Defying authority isn't something he can _do_ anymore after the creature. He tries, but the knowledge of the ever-awaiting consequences to his actions stops him before he can get much of anywhere.

He deflates. The indignation seems to seep out of him in one gust of air and he falls stiffly into the chair again. He waits for them to strike him, but it doesn't come. This isn't the Blodig Skog, he tries to tell himself, the circumstances are different.

But he can't help instinct.

Frigga's expression smooths over, "The High Commander asked us to prevent you from returning to the ring for the rest of the week. I agree. This isn't the first outburst where you've been reported as...absent mentally. What can we do about it?"

Do they really think if he knew that he wouldn't have told them?

He shakes his head. "May I be excused? Please?"

"Loki, please," Frigga seems earnest. "Please try better to control your temper. You're going to get someone hurt if you don't."

It stings, vaguely, that Frigga is more concerned about everyone else's safety than his own. He bites on his tongue. "May I go?"

Frigga looks hesitant, but Father gives a stiff nod, eyes angry. "Yes. You can go."

He almost sounds like he's trying to shoo Loki out of the room, and he bites harder on his inner cheek as he stands up. He tries to keep himself as put-together as he can before he slips away from the room. He shuts the door as softly as he can, even though his muscles are coiled tight enough to slam it.

"You tried to kill someone in training today?"

Loki startles at the noise, magic rising to the surface sharply in defense, but there's no threat but Thor. His brother is staring at him incredulously, obviously having been listening to the entire conversation. Loki's face heats with humiliation. He doesn't want to explain himself. He doesn't want to go into detail about what happened and why he did it. He already knows he's crazy, he doesn't need everyone around him to confirm it. Again. They already have.

"Yes."

Thor's eyebrows raise. He looks doubtful, but there's the slightest edge of unease on his face, as if he _actually_ thinks Loki is capable of cold-blooded murder. Well. Pleasant thoughts. Such trust. Does Thor think he's mad, too?

His brother shifts on his feet, the briefest edge of a wince appearing on his features. "That doesn't..." he starts, obviously conflicted. "Why would you do that? What did he _do_ to you?"

"I'm insane. Do I need another reason?" Loki starts pick his way through the royal family's wing to his room, tasting blood in his mouth. He must have been biting harder than he thought.

"Loki!" Thor calls at his back.

"Save it." Loki snaps without looking towards him. "I'm not in the mood for another lecture on honor."

"I wasn't—"

"Good _eve,_ Thor," Loki says pointedly and slips into the confines of his room before his brother can formulate a response. He shuts the door quietly and doesn't bother to light anything, any strength leaving him almost immediately when he's alone. Loki slumps down against the wood, wrapping his arms around his legs and trying to breathe.

The darkness wraps around him, a familiar feeling. If Loki closes his eyes, he swears he can hear the rhythm of the Vanir children and Warriors Four breathing into the dark of the cellar. But when he opens them, he's alone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone please stay safe and healthy. If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to hear your thoughts about the chapter. ;)
> 
> Next chapter: April.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story is not abandoned. I am just. You know. Plague. Real life. That kind of thing. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: PTSD.

* * *

Thor hits the ground, hard, and for a wild moment considers not getting up. He could just sit here with the blood in his mouth from where they hit him and not have to stand on his shaky legs again and face the humiliation of getting kicked down once more.

But Thor was never taught to be a coward. And his pride refuses to let him lay here like he fainted.

Thor grits his teeth and tastes the blood in his mouth sourly for a moment before he gathers it along his tongue and spits onto the floor, pushing up to his hands and knees. He wraps his hand around the long, wooden stick and unsteadily gets to his feet. He sways instantly, his leg threatening to give out as the muscle twists with pain and Thor bites harder on the inside of his cheek.

He distributes his weight onto his right even though he knows it leaves him at a disadvantage and takes the stick into both hands, scowling. Releasing a noise in the back of his throat, he twists the staff around sharply, aiming to smack it against his opponent's hip. She's faster. Twirling out of the way, she claps the tip of her stick against his own. They trade a few more blows before she swipes his feet out from under him with embarrassing ease and Thor lands hard on his back, barely keeping his skull from clapping against the stone.

He bites back a groan as pain shoots up to his shoulders. More blood pools into his mouth, but it's from his tongue this time.

"Alright, enough," Fandral sounds a mix between exasperated and worried. "You're going to break something if you keep this up."

"No." Thor protests, grappling around for the stupid broom even though his body is screaming at him to stop. He can't feel beyond his knee anymore, and he knows he'll regret it in an hour or so when he's reduced to using that stupid crutch. It's humiliating, to have to place his trust of remaining upright in a glorified stick. He's the Crown Prince. A bloody _son of Odin,_ he shouldn't have to hobble around like an old woman whose bones ache because of the weather.

Sif lowers her stick. "Thor," she sighs.

" _No."_ Thor argues, shoving up to his feet. His legs won't hold his weight and he nearly goes toppling back down. Hogun grabs his arm and hauls him upright, expression far from impressed. Thor bites on the inside of his raw cheek.

"Stop this. You're going to do yourself permanent harm," Fandral says flatly.

"I _won't."_ Thor yanks his arm from Hogun and teeters. _Norns, curse it!_

"How will you have us explain this to Lady Eir when you _do_ snap your arm open?" Sif sounds tired, and rests the staff on the ground, leaning her body weight against it. The movement is so easy for her. Nothing like the hobbling mess Thor has become. Envy, cold and unwanted, seeps into his chest. "This needs to stop."

Thor scowls at her, then all of them. Fandral and Volstagg are seated on the couches shoved into one corner of what used to be a study. All the furniture has been squished into one corner, providing as much as room as possible for the mock-fights as he can manage. Not that there's much of a need for it, he and the others barely go a few feet before someone floors him.

"You said you would help." Thor grits between his teeth. "You swore."

Hogun looks pained.

Thor grips the staff harder. Sif gives him an apologetic look, "We've been trying this for months. I just don't think that what we're doing is helping."

So she's said. Often. Along with everyone else. They seem more willing to dissuade him than anything else.

"My mother won't let me on the training grounds." Thor spits, "If you don't agree to do this with me, no one will. I can't rule Asgard as a _cripple."_ The words taste sour. Perhaps even bitter. Thor suspects they are. Despite how he likes to feign ignorance, he knows what is being spoken of him. The Nine Realms _laugh_ at them. The great Allfather and Mother, who, for all their power, have only a cripple or a madman as their heirs.

"And you can't do it broken beyond repair, either, mate." Fandral says dryly.

Thor scoffs, "You aren't going to _break_ me—"

In a fluid move, Hogun both disarms and sends him flailing towards the floor again. Thor manages to catch his balance on his hands, but doesn't quite have the willpower to get back up again. His face is hot with humiliation.

"No? This isn't working." Hogun says, "Not in the way that we hoped. All we've done is limit your recovery. Perhaps we've even made it impossible."

"I won't be like this forever," Thor says to the floor, because he can't make himself look up through his long hair. "Eir will find a cure."

That's what Mother said, and Father. And here Thor is, half a year later, and in no better condition than he was when he arrived on Asgard. For all it's uses, sedir won't provide the answer that they want. Thor knows that this is permanent.

And he _hates_ it.

If he can't even take care of himself, how is he supposed to rule Asgard? Take care of a family? Take care of _his_ family? He can barely make it down a staircase without nearly breaking his neck. He has been reduced from one of the greatest warriors in the Nine to _this._

He can feel their pitying stares on his back. They, like him, have few hopes of a recovery. It's the great unspoken thing between them. Thor knew this would be a hopeless endeavor when he started, but he couldn't just be idle. He has to learn how to fight with this...disadvantage or he'll never be worth anything.

Thor shoves up. He levels his weight and stares at Sif. He clenches his fists and raises his hands, jutting his chin out. "Fight me."

"Let's be done for today," Volstagg suggests. "We're not in any hurry."

No. They are. The Nine knows that they're weakened. Without proper heirs, Asgard is vulnerable. The sooner Thor can get up, the better. Then they can be seen as a source of power instead of pity.

Thor shakes his head harder, trying to ebb Sif forward, " _Fight me."_

Hogun rests a hand on his arm. "Thor—"

Thor shoves him off and elbows him in the sternum. Hogun stumbles backwards with a pained grunt and Thor moves to his right, placing his weight on his stronger leg before he swings towards Sif's face. She dodges the first fist, but misses the second that he brings towards her stomach. An expel of air escapes her harshly and she flips the stick up, going for his middle.

Thor staggers out of the way, barely, limping as he tries to skirt around her. But he's not moving fast enough. Sif comes in for the metaphorical kill and he panics. He can't hit the ground again today. The Warriors already know that he's pathetic, having watched his slow progress and simultaneous spiral over the last four months, but he won't get up if he's flattened.

He grabs the edge of the staff and yanks her forward sharply, unintentionally ramming their heads together. Pain flares his vision white for a moment, and Thor drops his hold on the staff as he brings his hands up to his face to hold the area. Sif already has her hands on her nose and he can see blood leaking through her fingers.

Thor almost winces.

A year ago and this mistake never would have been made. A year ago he was unstoppable. _A year ago,_ a snide voice whispers in the back of his mind, _you were running around inside of Vanaheim's forests and hoping that you popped out the right end, if you ever found one._

Fandral releases a curse behind him, and he hears the footsteps move towards them. Thor blinks back tears of frustration and Sif waves off Hogun as he tries to peel her hands back to see the worst of the damage. "I'm fine," she promises, but her voice is slightly congested.

"Sif, I—" Thor starts to apologize, feeling that it's warranted at this point, but all of them stop as a voice questions, "What on Helheim did you _do?"_ and Loki shoves past Thor and forcefully pulls Sif's hands away from the wound. The nose is just bleeding, there isn't any other visible damage. Well, at least he didn't _break_ it.

"I was…" Thor fumbles for an excuse. Loki doesn't know about what they're doing. No one does. If Loki knew that Thor had strung the Warriors into training with him every other day, he'd surely take it to Mother and Father, and then they'd start a whole mess about _that_ when it isn't even warranted. Eir keeps saying to keep weight off the leg, to not over-strain himself, and other medical gibberish he logically knows makes sense, but can't get himself to follow.

He's not a cripple.

And he's so tired of everyone seeing him as that.

"We were," Thor tries. Then he realizes something. "What are you doing in here? You're supposed to be—" no, not training because General Tyr all but booted him out of it for reasons that _no one_ will properly explain to him, so where _is_ Loki supposed to be? "—you're not supposed to be here. We're busy. With things." He amends as quickly as he can.

When did Loki enter? How much did he _hear?_

Fandral rests a hand on his shoulder in support, but one of his eyebrows is raised slightly. Thor is a poor liar, always has been.

Loki turns to face him. Thor tries not to flinch back from the sight that greets him. None of them came back the same from Vanaheim, loathe they are to admit this, but Thor can never really get the image he has of his brother from _before_ to really coincide with the _after._ His brother never really gained any of the weight he lost back, reducing him to a thin, almost skeletal shape that leaves him looking hungry and stretched. Loki seems always sick now, tires easily, but is pale from sleepless nights. He can hardly remember the last time he saw Loki smile, let alone laugh. And his _eyes—_ so haunted, twisted carry little of the warmth he remembers from _before._

Thor knows he's different now, too. The scar over his eye, the leg, the _hesitance._ They're never going to be the same again. They lost what they had before in those woods, and the Loki that was his brother instead of the ghost that haunts the halls of Asgard is gone.

"Am I not?" Loki lifts his chin slightly, challenging him.

Thor doesn't want to fight him. Not now. Any other time, he might've engaged in it, if only so they would talk. His jaw clenches, "No." He says flatly, "And there's a common courtesy called _knocking_ if you'd be so kind as to remember it next time."

Loki snorts. "Because you always grace me with the same favor."

Thor sees the Warriors share an uncomfortable look behind him. He grits his teeth. "So what _are_ you doing in here?"

Loki squints, almost as if trying to decide if Thor is worthy of the information. Then he flattens out unexpectedly, the fight draining from him. "Frigga sent me. She wants all of us to meet them in the throne room in twenty minutes." Loki hesitates for a moment and then looks towards Hogun, "Your father comes bearing a message from the king of Vanaheim."

Thor stills. Something heavy hangs in the air for a long moment, as if the mere mention of the realm outloud will summon its demon from the grave. She's been dead for a long time now, but it doesn't seem to help.

Hogun's face tightens for a moment with obvious discomfort. Thor knows that he and his parents have exchanged letters, but Hogun has refused to return to Vanaheim despite his parents' pleading. They wanted to keep the family together, but as an emissary of the king, Hogun's father couldn't stay on Asgard, and Hogun wouldn't leave.

The confrontation will likely be strained.

"My father didn't tell me he was coming," Hogun says after a moment.

Loki presses his lips together, "I don't believe this was a planned visit. I saw Governor Tusin's arrival, they didn't seem well."

Great. More problems. Can't Vanaheim take care of themselves for once? Thor mentally kicks himself. It's not _his_ decision on whether or not to hear the Vanir people, it's his father's. And they are the sworn protectors of all life in the Nine, not just the ones they see fit. But Thor still can't help the coil of shame in his gut that stirs to life when he realizes that he would have preferred _anyone_ over Vanaheim.

Vanaheim is…

That tension is still there between them all. Drifting too close to panic or apathy.

"He requested an audience with our father?" Thor asks, trying to understand. "So soon? Has something happened? Why would our father request all of us?" _He knows how much we shudder away from the realm._ Thor leaves that last part unspoken, judging from the faces of his friends and brother, they understand anyway.

Loki frowns, "I don't know." He casts a glance towards Sif's still-bleeding nose, then to Thor's head. "But I suggest that you clean up. Both of you." Thor's hand strays towards his hair and he grimaces when he feels how slick and disgusting it feels. Loki's right. He's not meeting with the king like this.

000o000

Thor spots Loki again when he enters the throne room, only a few minutes later than what his father wanted. But Thor is dressed in something better suited for the court and cleaned up as best he can with the minimal time, so he considers this a win.

His father is seated on Hliðskjálf, his mother on his right. Loki is standing on the stairs a little off center to Odin's left, and Thor takes his place beside him, trying to ignore how the eyes in the room follow his stumbling excuse for a normal walking gait.

The delegation from Vanaheim is already present, which only shows a stark contrast to Thor's dallying. He bites on his lower lip, even though it's a habit that his father has chided him on for doing in public. Uncertainty shows weakness, and weakness crumples empires.

Thor casts his gaze around the room. The curia regis are here, but that isn't a surprise. The stuffy old men and women of Odin's council are hardly absent in such meetings. Thor spots a few of the generals and High Commander Tyr as well. Sif and the Warriors Three are standing side by side within the small crowd, stiff.

Thor catches Fandral's eye for a moment, and the swordmaster gives him a brief nod.

His father clangs Gungnir against the hard stone and the volume of the noise makes Thor barely repress an open wince. Everyone snaps to attention, pulling their gazes up. "Governor Tusin," Father addresses, his tone even, "since we are all now gathered,"—that was pointed. Thor will hear of this later—"what is the message that your king has to offer us?"

Hogun's father clears his throat and takes a step forward, apart from the dozen or so men with him. Thor is struck by how tired the man seems. The Governor has never been one for smiling, at least, for as long as Thor has known him, but now the lines etching the sides of his face make him seem, well, _grim._ Thor's private hopes that this is some sort of grand celebration—a wedding, a crowning, something _happy_ —are dashed as he sees those lines.

"Allfather," Governor Tusin says and dips his head with respect. He fingers a thick scroll between his hands, but doesn't open it. "This is a matter of extreme delicacy and not one that I would bring before you if my king hadn't grown desperate. We…" the man's gaze flicks towards Hogun for a moment, then pulls back to Odin, "we are in need of your assistance, my lord. My king stresses that he would not call upon your aid so soon given recent...developments, but we have come to consult."

Thor does not miss the pointed look towards him and his sibling when Governor Tusin hesitates around the word "developments." Is that what they're calling it now? The fact that, inadvertently, Vanaheim weakened the security of Asgard's future? _Not Vanaheim,_ a quiet voice chides, _the Weeping Siren. These crimes on her head, not the realm's._

Odin leans forward some. "And what would you like to consult about? You are more than welcome to Asgard's libraries, but I cannot help you if you do not explain why this is necessary."

The Vanir men behind Governor Tusin share an uncomfortable look. Hogun's father's hands clench around the scroll, then he releases a long breath. "It regards the Blodig Skog, sire."

Thor feels himself go stiff. Beside him, Loki's hands tighten into fists. If Thor wasn't looking for it, he would have missed the way that both their parents gazes flick towards them before drawing away just as quickly.

"I see." Odin's voice is toneless. It's almost a reassurance that he's so _bland_ about this. No shouting, no screaming, just the same even tone he gives every other inquiry. "And what exactly about the Blodig Skog do you need information about? I would have thought that your own sorcerers and books would provide more answers over ours."

His father makes a point. It's _in_ Vanaheim. Why would Asgard know more?

Governor Tusin is quiet for a moment, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. When he speaks, his tone is hesitant. "I wasn't sent here to speak with you about Asgard's sorcerers, nor peruse your libraries, Allfather."

"No?"

One of the men behind the Governor, a tall dark-haired bloke sporting a heavy beard leans forward and says something to Hogun's father sharply. It's in the Vanir tongue, and Thor can't quite catch it, but he sees his mother's brow furrow.

Hogun's father's face grows unhappy for a moment before he says, "I should backtrack, my apologies. We have...we have had recent troubles from the forest, sire. It isn't...behaving the way it should."

"Because it was always so compliant beforehand?" His mother says dryly. Thor feels some of the tension in him seep away as he has to hold back the sudden urge to laugh. This was clearly her intent—to ease some of the tension—because he hears a few Aesir cough sharply.

Governor Tusin isn't amused. "Perhaps that was a poor choice of words on my part. The Blodig Skog is not behaving as it has in the past. It's...sick."

Sick. How can a _forest_ be sick?

"Speak plainly." Odin demands.

Governor Tusin shoots another glance at Hogun, clearly trying to get his attention for something, but Hogun is staring resolutely at the far wall. Clearly disappointed, Governor Tusin returns to Odin's words, "For the last several hundred years, the Blodig Skog has remained relatively within the same span of land. It never expands or contracts, nor does it ever grow old, wither, or die. It has remained in a state of...how do I say this? Immortality, perhaps. But now…"

Frigga takes a step forward, "Are you saying that there's something wrong with the spells?"

"From the best our sedirmasters can tell, yes." Governor Tusin doesn't miss a beat.

Thor eyes his mother as she tilts her head with obvious confusion as she explains, "But those spells have been in place since before I was a child and I've never seen them falter."

"You misunderstand. They're not faltering. They're expanding. The Blodig Skog is consuming the nearby fields and towns. Ju, Terrif, Faar—they've all been lost to us. The capital is overwhelmed with the refugees. It's how we first became aware of the problem."

Thor feels some doubt spike in him at that. The Blodig Skog isn't something you can exactly _ignore._ It's...well, _huge._ And to consume at least three towns, even if they are a little small, without anyone making note is just...strange. If outer territories in Asgard suffered the same fate, they would know before the homeless arrived for aid.

"I see," Frigga says, "and what was occupying your time?"

"We," another hesitation. This time, the Governor's gaze rests on him and his brother. Loki pulls his gaze away quickly, but Thor holds the stare. "There has been something of a plague spreading throughout the realm, my lady. We have been busy trying to keep it contained. Queen Freya suspects it is from the forest as well, as we can find no other source, and it appears to be affecting only those with magic."

And now it's giving plagues? It's a _forest._

Thor sees his parents share a look from the corner of his eye, but he can't interpret what it means.

Thor stares at Governor Tusin and can't help but feel slightly puzzled. What is he doing here? If they know that the forest is expanding and they have a plague they're dealing with, why did they come to _Asgard?_ If they needed medical aid, wouldn't they have just sent word, not a party?

Why the personal visit? _Why?_

"And what is the consultation that you're here for, then?" One of the members of the council, Lord Agra asks, "If you're not here for our libraries, what would your king have us do?"

Governor Tusin is quiet. Then he licks his lips and says, "There are few who leave the Blodig Skog with their sanity intact"—Thor feels his stomach clench, his mind immediately leaping onto dire straits about where this is going—"and fewer who have remained for longer than a few weeks at a time without going mad. We _need_ to understand what the Blodig Skog is doing so we can heal it and the only way we can begin to accomplish that is to speak with those who know what the enchantment feels like."

No.

Thor's not…

_No._

His leg begins to throb dully. Likely from the sparring session earlier, but he can't help but feel like it's mocking him. _Remember, remember,_ it taunts, _lest you dare think about forgetting._ No. Never forgetting. The sensation of the Weeping Siren's sedir slinking beneath his skin as he writhed and then her wild grin as she clenched her fist and he felt the bone _explode_ —

"You have read the reports of what occurred when we sentenced the creature Rydant to death." Odin's voice has gained a harder edge and it snaps him back into focus. There's anger there. Thor resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, shifting his weight to his right leg heavily. The pain is getting worse. Sliding from a throb to a deep ache. "Use that. What difference does it make if it's from mouth or from paper?"

"The difference," the man who spoke in Vanir to Governor Tusin speaks up, voice harsh, "may well be the survival of Vanaheim. We do not want them to _speak_ of it. Our sedirmasters need to study them for the faint traces of the enchantments in a controlled environment. And—beyond that, the Weeping Siren was the child of one of the enchanters. We need to find her home and see if she has any records on why the Blodig Skog is doing this, but the glamour she left remains and our map will reveal nothing to us. With your permission, Allfather, we ask that you let us take your sons, the Warriors Three, and the Lady Sif to Vanaheim for a few weeks to locate her hovel, and allow our sedirmaters to look them over."

The words hang in the air. Heavy.

Thor swallows thickly, barely daring to breathe. Slowly, he lifts his eyes from the floor to the Warriors first. All of them have lost any color in their faces, staring at the Vanir man like he just suggested they commit mass murder. Thor glances to his left. Loki _was_ picking at his palm, but his fingers have stilled, something nothing short of horror flashing over his face openly.

Thor doesn't think he's faring much better. It feels cowardly to be afraid of the woods, but Thor _does not want to go back._

Vanaheim. The Blodig Skog. The Weeping Siren's hovel. Could Vanaheim have come up with a worse request list? _Please say no, please say no, please say—_ Thor catches himself and grits his teeth. Whatever his father's decision, he has to be okay with it. He can't refuse to aid to the Vanir because he's a coward.

The silence stretches for long enough that a different Vanir man prods carefully, "My liege?"

Odin gets to his feet. Thor watches him, his chest tight. His leg is cramping now, Thor doesn't know how much longer he can remain standing. He's leaning heavily into his right foot already, he's close to toppling. "I cannot give you an answer now, Governor. You are welcome to stay the night. We'll reconvene in the morning with a decision."

"Allfather, we don't—"

"You will _make_ time, or I will outright refuse you." Odin snaps. He lifts his elbow up and Frigga takes a step forward, taking it. Odin looks towards the group of tired Vanir men once more, as if this scrutiny will reveal something he missed in the last few minutes. "I assume that this is your last hope, for I would not expect you to demand such a high price first."

A high price? Taking them back to Vanaheim is a _high price?_

"No, my lord," Governor Tusin sighs. "We will wait." He seems less happy about that than he did anything else he said. Thor presses his lips together tightly, trying to _will_ his leg to stop aching.

His father steps down the dais and begins to move towards the back exit, Frigga at his side. Thor knows that he should follow, but he doesn't know if he can move without falling flat on his face. He's already humiliated Asgard enough, he needn't add something else to his alarmingly long list.

Loki turns, walking towards the exit and Thor swallows his pride and tries to follow. Key word: tries. He makes it a whole two steps before his leg gives and he releases a noise of surprise, toppling forward. His hands grapple for anything to help keep him upright, and his fingers clench around his younger brother's shoulder.

Loki jerks, nearly sent to the floor by the force of Thor's fall. Thankfully, he manages to keep his balance and by extension, Thor's. Thor squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, willing the Norns to end it here, but they don't.

Thor steadies, lifting his head to look up at his brother. Behind them, Odin and Frigga have stopped to stare, which only makes this worse.

Loki's jaw clenches somewhat, but he moves, pulling Thor's arm around his shoulders and wrapping a hand around his waist to keep him upright. Thor refuses to look at the raven-hair's face as he hobbles forward with the support. His limp is much worse than normal. It had to be in _public_ that this happens? He couldn't have had it happen tonight, when he was asleep?

"Thank you," Thor whispers to his brother, his voice barely audible.

They follow their parents from the room. Loki a sick, wispy thing and Thor the broken doll hauled over his shoulders. How can their parents ever take pride in them again? How will they ever recover from this? Thor is not a worthy heir. He's an embarrassment. He will never live up to his father's legacy like this.

If he ever could have in the first place.

000o000

Frigga ushers them into the sitting room within his parent's bedchamber and Loki lowers Thor to one of the couches before taking a seat beside him. Mother moves to his side instantly, kneeling down in front of him. "Are you alright?"

"No." Thor admits in a mutter.

"Eir said not to overexert yourself," Frigga chides. "What have you done this time?"

_More than you want to know._

Thor shrugs. Loki lifts a skeptical brow in his direction. Thor sends a scowl in his as warning. If he mentions _one word_ of what he saw earlier, Thor will crop Loki's hair to his ears without remorse. "I must have just walked on it too long." Thor tries, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. He clenches his fists, wishing he could come up with a decent fib for once.

Frigga opens her mouth, looking like she wants to protest before she sighs and shakes her head, "Is it a sharp pain or an ache?"

Thor thinks about it for a second. "Ache. I didn't break the bone again, Mother. You can stop fretting. I haven't done anything worse than normal."

Which is true. Technically. His mother just doesn't know the full extent of what "normal" is.

"I'm your mother. It's my job to fret." Frigga protests. She looks towards Loki, frowning. "You're pale. Do you feel sick?"

Loki shakes his head, still wordless. He hasn't said anything since the meeting. It's...concerning. Thor doesn't know what to do about it. Maybe he would have Before, but in this messy, strange land of After? No.

Frigga gives Loki's knee a quick squeeze, drawing back somewhat before she looks at Father. Odin helps her to her feet and they take a position on the couch across from them. Thor digs his nails into his palms. He knows what this means. They have their most solemn conversations in this setting, where his parents become his _parents_ and not his king and queen. Norns, they must have already reached their conclusion about Vanaheim and now they're going to tell them, and Thor is _going to have to go back._

Father opens his mouth to say something, but the panic explodes through his chest and Thor interrupts flatly, "No."

Loki's gaze lifts from the floor to Thor's face as if he's a stranger. Thor swallows thickly, refusing to meet his younger brother's stare. He knows he's much less vocal about his apprehension regarding the whole mess, and _it's just a forest,_ but he's...afraid. The thought disturbs him. He doesn't scare easily. Somehow running around in the _trees_ is what does him in?

What he went through compares little to what the Warriors and his brother suffered. He was just lost. They were kept and tortured.

Mother frowns, "Thor,"

He shakes his head, hating how _small_ he feels. He's supposed to be brave, but he's shying away from this. "No. I won't go back. They're mad if they think that this plan will actually work. What are they going to study off of us? It's been half a year since we stepped foot in the forest. Any remaining magic will have left, won't it? We don't _have_ to go back."

Mother rubs her thumb across her palm. "Not necessarily, son. Magic that strong can remain for years."

_Great._

Mother appends after a moment, "But I don't suspect that's everything. Their claims for a guide...navigation through the Blodig Skog is impossible without a map. We only found the tunnels by sheer chance."

Chance. It took them _days_ to find those tunnels. Thor wandered for _months_ with madmen. The forest _let them go._ There's no other explanation. That wasn't _them._

Odin sighs, "I fear there is more they are withholding from us." Frigga frowns, obviously sharing the concern. She drums her fingers against her thigh for a moment, sitting back a little. His father remains still, lips pressed together.

"Even so," Thor hates how nearly _frantic_ his voice feels. "Is it possible that we could just…" the words get caught in his throat. They won't come out, and he's relieved. He started speaking before he thought about it, but trying to weasel his way out of this is cowardly. He's the prince. Wasn't he trying to prove his worth to the Warriors not an hours past? If he remains here, Asgard will _know_ he's unfit for the crown.

There's another stretch of silence, then a thought occurs to him, far slower than it should have. "Why do they want _me?"_ Thor asks, "If their primary concern is navigation. I can't help them find the Weeping Siren's hovel."

He didn't even see it.

"But you were _there,_ Thor." Frigga says, lips twisted. "If I'm being honest, even _I_ can sense the Blodig Skog on both of you still."

Loki twitches.

Thor wrings his hands. He forces his leg to stop bouncing, making sure to keep his other completely still. The slightest twitch sends flares of agony through the limb, reminding him that it is unhappy with the abuse it endured today. "What does that mean? Are we...enchanted?"

Loki snorts openly, as if the idea is nothing short of ridiculous. Thor shoots him a scowl, wishing he would _say_ something instead of just silently judge everything he's saying. Loki should be asking questions, he's always curious about this kind of thing, but he instead seems to be focused on memorizing the rug.

"No," their father says, seeming tired. "I don't know what the long-term effects of the forest will be. No one does. As Governor Tusin mentioned, anyone who enters leaves mad or goes missing. The mad are usually dead within a few months. Your group are the _only_ survivors in both mind and body that I know of."

Thor blinks.

Oh.

He...didn't know that. Which seems puerile. It's been half a year. If he made history, he should _know_ that he did. He's always been so aware of these things before, but there was all those weeks with Madame Eir and then trying to learn to walk again, and then the mess behind the Warriors and Loki's return...maybe he just...hasn't had _time_ to learn?

No. He never asked, and no one ever brought it up. Thor knows _about_ the Blodig Skog, as well as any other Asgardian. But all the statistics and little details he memorized to pass tests or write papers have slipped his memory over the years.

Nonetheless, this brings up a lingering, weighted question: _why?_

 _Why_ are they the only people to have walked away without a problem? A millennia of history to back the stories and the claims, and suddenly _they're_ fine? Some of those children were there for years before Loki or the Warriors arrived. And they're _shaken,_ but overall there have been no negative effects. Why, why, _why?_

Maybe...maybe this is what Vanaheim is _truly_ trying to discover by studying them. How they walked away with their sanity. If the Blodig Skog is spreading, and they can't find a way to stop it...they'll need to know how to survive it.

Frigga releases a tight breath. "The Vanir can manage without you if you choose not to go"—something in her tone betrays that she's rather they _did,_ and it stings slightly, but Thor forces himself to remember that this is Frigga's home world, _of course she would do anything for it—"_ but I think it would be within our best interests to at least scope out the situation. We can always leave."

We.

"You'd _come?"_ Thor blurts. He feels a slight flush rise to his face when he sees the look both his parents shoot him, as if the answer to that question should be rather obvious. But it's...not. They're the head of the Nine. They can't just drop everything. Strangely, though, the idea of them being there makes him marginally less opposed to the whole thing.

But only marginally.

"We can't _leave_ you there, alone, given what happened last time." Odin says briskly. His grip on Gungnir loosens some. "But it's your choice, not ours."

Thor almost wishes it wasn't. It doesn't feel like there's really a win in this situation. They say yes and have to _go,_ or they so no and Vanaheim falls apart.

"I think," Loki's voice is soft, and Thor turns to look at him, "that we don't _have_ any options here." Frigga shakes her head in disagreement, but Loki lifts up a hand to quiet her before she can say anything. "Vanaheim is on its last leg. This has clearly been going on for months, and they've only _now_ spoken up because they've run out of options. For us to deny them would be to sentence them to death."

"We can find something else." Odin says. His tone is still that even, flat thing. "You needn't suffer through anything else."

Something dark flickers across Loki's features. "You're worried that I'll snap if you take me back there?" The question is delivered like he's simply asking about their father's boot. Thor twitches slightly, slightly aghast that Loki would _ask_ something so outright of their father.

The skin around Odin's eyes grows tight. Not with shame, but something else. Sorrow. "No, Loki."

"Liar," Loki whispers. His brother closes his eyes and misses the momentary flicker of grief that flashes over Odin's face. Thor feels his lips part at it. Rarely does his father show emotion so freely. It's... _raw._

"I'm trying to help you, Loki," Odin says.

Loki snorts, but Thor notices his hands are trembling. Thor resists the urge to grab one and try to help. Loki reacts so violently to touch now. Thor doesn't know how to help him anymore. He hardly _knows_ him anymore. ( _Stop that,_ he chides himself, _Loki is trying to get better and your harsh judgement offers no aid.)_

Frigga rests a hand on her husband's arm and gives a slight shake of her head. Then she turns to them and her expression flits with regret. "Loki is right. As much as I want to put both of you—and the Warriors and Sif—before Vanaheim, it is our duty as guardians of these realms to put them before ourselves. I'm sorry. We will leave for Vanaheim at first light."

A tightness settles in his ribcage next to his heart, squeezing at the muscle as it attempts to pulse.

"Wonderful," Loki says, without an ounce of excitement in his tone.

Thor thinks that summarizes his sentiments about this exactly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone please stay as safe and healthy as you can. :) Happy Easter! 
> 
> Next chapter: End of April/Early May, maybe sooner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD, alludes to past self harm.

* * *

It smells the same.

Sounds the same.

Looks the same.

 _Is_ the same.

Vanaheim's long hillsides spread out into fields with tall crops bursting up from the dirt like it's beyond the Vanir's ability to stop. The clouds are slowly slinking towards the horizon, thick and gray, promising rain that he knows from previous experience will show little mercy. The distant capital, Bo-An, is the only change. The only relief from the ghosts in his head.

He can remember all too well standing in the Weeping Siren's stupid field watching the clouds slowly pass over the horizon and miserably awaiting the next rainstorm. Or the days when the blunt edge of the knife would strike his palm just right and he'd had the blood streaming down his fingers.

But he couldn't see Bo-An from the Weeping Siren's field. He couldn't see it. He's not there.

Loki's fingers tighten around the reigns for Moa anyway. He tries to focus forward, and not how much breathing is beginning to hurt. Pollen. It smells like _pollen_ and wet wheat. He still doesn't know if this is just a permanent fixture into Vanaheim's atmosphere or the smell of the distant farmlands.

It's fine.

He's fine.

His brother is on his left, close enough that if Loki stretched out with his left hand enough he could brush his fingers against his arm. Thor wasn't there, either. His parents are ahead of him, mounted atop their own horses. Governor Tusin is on Frigga's left. None of them were here. It's fine.

He can breathe, and manages to keep the tremors hidden.

But then his eyes will slide somewhat, and he'll see Sif or Fandral's heads silhouetted by the sun and the smell that makes his lungs ache and he'll be back there. Standing in that field with the dull, bloody dagger and a bleeding hand.

Loki grits his teeth and focuses forward.

This is just going to be for a few days. Frigga said that it wouldn't be more than two weeks at most. He wants to cling to that, but he's not placing all his hopes upon it. The original trip wasn't supposed to be more than a few days as well. _How long can it take to hunt a stupid beast?_ Thor had asked when their father had warned them not to take too long the first time.

But it takes much longer when the beast isn't stupid.

And you stop being the hunter.

Sif whispers something he doesn't catch and Fandral releases a strained chuckle. Nothing about this place is funny. Loki's jaw is beginning to ache from how tightly it's clenched. Ahead of him, Hogun is resolutely ignoring his father's attempts to talk with him, instead engaging in a conversation with Volstagg like his very soul depends on it. Eir and the dozen or so members of her staff she brought are discussing what the "illness" Governor Tusin mentioned might be.

People are talking. Like this is just some sort of vacation.

But he and Thor are quiet. Any attempts at conversation by either or both of them have been dropped and trodden upon. Loki doesn't want the small talk, and neither of them want to discuss anything else. So the silence remains.

The small figures waiting at the gate to the entrance of Bo-An slowly grow larger until Loki can make out distinct details on his uncle and aunt's faces. Freya looks pinched, her dark, graying hair pulled into a tight bun. There's nothing fancy about it, which speaks more for her exhaustion than anything else could have. Loki has long since learned that within the royal circles, hair is used to show a sign of status.

His uncle, King Lin, is standing beside his aunt, tall and equally worn. His eyes hold shadows so deep they mimic long smears with charcoal. Beside them is a small guard, a few of the members of their council and all of his cousins.

Including Tjan.

Loki lets his eyes slide over the latter, unwilling to stare the man in the face. Thor visibly tightens at the sight of him, but makes no comment. Loki spares his sibling a side glance, wondering what it must be like to see Tjan after wandering through that stupid forest with nothing but Tjan and the remainder of his possessed guard to hobble after him. Evidently, judging by the tightness of Thor's jaw, it's not a good feeling.

Their party comes to a stop, and Loki waits for Odin to dismount before following suit. He bites on the inside of his cheek and grips thick locks of Moa's mane, trying to draw comfort from her. She brushes up against his side to compensate, not kicking him like she normally would if he tried to do this any other time, the pesky horse.

Odin approaches Lin, and the two of them hold gazes for a moment before Lin extends his hand in companionship. Odin grasps it, the silent one-up over. They shake firmly, like comrades, then let go.

"Odin," Lin says with some measure of relief, "thank you for coming. I'm sorry this was so sudden. I'd meant to send for your aid sooner, but I suppose it never made it to the halls of Asgard until now."

"No." Odin promises.

If Lin had seriously thought that dropping enough hints over the last few weeks and hoping gossip would get him the help he wanted, his disappointment isn't all that surprising.

Loki watches, almost detached, as Frigga wraps her sister in a quick embrace. They say a few words that Loki doesn't quite catch, then draw apart. Loki bites on the inside of his cheek, vague memories of the two of them talking as he laid in somewhat-comatose after they were pulled from the caves coming to mind. He doesn't have many memories from that time—none that really make sense—but he does know that they spoke around him.

"We have much to discuss," Lin says, tipping his head somewhat to stare among their group. Loki forces himself to straighten and stop hiding behind his horse, even though he wants to keep burrowing into Moa's neck like a coward. He clenches his teeth down harder, and barely hides a wince from the pain.

Lin catches Loki's eye for a moment, something flickering across his face that Loki can't catch. As soon as it's there, it's gone. Vanaheim's king turns to his father, "I figure it would be better to kill two birds with one stone, while we council together, my head healer would like to start her analysis now. The sooner the better."

If he wasn't watching with such intent, Loki might've missed as his father's posture tightens slightly. Like someone grabbed strings attached to his collarbones and yanked backwards. Loki's eyebrows furrow with confusion, glancing once at Thor to see if his brother caught the action as well. Thor's gaze is pinned upwards, though, not staring directly up, but his gaze pinned above the heads of everyone. His fingers are thrumming anxiously against the saddle of his stallion.

Loki's lips press together tightly, and he turns his gaze back towards the kings.

That's when he notices Odin is looking back at them. It's a fleeting glance, but a heavy weighted one all the same. It doesn't feel like an assessment of their character, or a search for flaws, just...Loki doesn't even know what to make of the expression.

He's not even sure he wants to.

He's tired. He doesn't want to keep thinking about this. He just wants someone to point him to where he needs to be next so he can be one step closer to sleep. It's barely afternoon, and he's already ready to return to bed.

Odin releases a breathy noise. Something between a grunt or a growl. "I'm not sure that I—"

"Really, Odin," Lin interrupts, hard edges pinning his face into an ugly thing. Anger and frustration. A man worn to bone. "There's nothing more they need to hear, and they're only here because we _need_ this study." He softens somewhat, "Please, this wouldn't be my first choice, but we've long since run out of options."

Odin blows out a slight breath, but gives an affirmative nod. From the corner of his eye, Loki sees Thor's shoulders drop a fraction, and is surprised when he realizes that his own followed suit.

But what were they expecting? That Odin would say no?

000o000

The group splits, Frigga giving his shoulder a squeeze as they pass and what's probably meant to be a reassuring smile. It feels more like a grimace, and Loki can't even get his lips to try and mimic something close to it. He's slightly afraid that if he parts or tries to move them, all he's going to do is scream, long and hard.

Even as they move after Vanaheim's head healer—a tall, bony woman with long gray hair and hard features—Loki can feel the eyes of the heads of state pinned on the back of his head. He grits his teeth behind his pursed lips and tries to ignore the sensation.

They take a back entrance into Bo-An's palace, which thankfully spares them the journey through the city center. The less people, the better. Loki doesn't know if he can manage and social graces at the moment, and he thinks Thor may take off someone's head on accident with how sprung up he is.

The Warriors are behind him now, along with Lady Eir and the small team she dragged in. It's formalities of rank. He and Thor are expected to take the front. Loki would much rather be squished somewhere in the middle. Not leading the ground, but not exposed. Middle-men seem to die less. The captain of Thor's guard is back there somewhere, too, along with a small, in-training squadron he dragged along "for experience" that Loki has yet to make acquaintance with. Captain Ullr is renowned for his skill in whipping stubborn idiots into shape for the army, so he's not to hopeful anyone pleasant got pulled along with them in this nightmare.

Loki's only been to Bo-An's palace a few times. More in his childhood, but it ebbed off as he got older. Still, the halls of Asgard's palace are familiar, since he knows every inch of it, top to bottom in a maze he's been memorizing since he could walk, often with Thor at his side. This is not. The architecture is drastically different from the golden pillars and tall hallways. Everything in the palace seems slightly...pinched, as if someone was molding the walls and designs with clay then a giant forefinger and thumb came and squashed it.

It's claustrophobic.

And very gray with flecks of silver. Dull. That might just be because gold is reflective, but stone isn't. Not in a mirror-like way.

Silently offering judgement to their designs and architecture keeps him busy as he first hands Moa off with reluctance to the stable hands then follows the head Vanir healer into the palace. Before the Siren, Loki would have been all too happy to immerse himself inside the less familiar culture. He still would. For anywhere that isn't Vanaheim.

He thinks he might raze the palace to the ground if given the opportunity. There were sigils smeared and carved inside the Weeping Siren's cellar that are on the walls and pillars of the palace. Meant for protection, prosperity, and more, but it doesn't really matter. He'd spent long hours shaking with pain from Aetheitin rubbing his hands along the wall behind himself in that cellar. He doubts that anyone but him bothered to do so. He has his doubts the Warriors even know about the carved marks. It's not like there was an abundance of light to see by.

Loki shakes his head to clear his head of the thoughts, but it doesn't really help. He scrapes harder to bring focus, and when that doesn't work either, digs the nails of his left hand inside his right wrist. The jolt of pain on sensitive skin brings the world into focus.

Thor is eyeing him, and Loki resolutely looks away from him, refusing to be embarrassed about the time slip. It's not as frequent as it used to be anymore, but that doesn't mean they've vanished all together.

They finally step inside the Vanir healing wing, and Loki digs his nails in again. Most of Vanir architecture doesn't believe in windows, and the healing wing is no different. It's claustrophobic, but not without light. He can only remember one time that he's been in this room here previously, and it was when Thor did his utmost to lose three fingers after he accidentally mis-fired one of the Vanir's guns and shot open his palm when they were barely more than children.

His stomach heaves in reminder at the gruesome, bloody injury and he stares at the open room, trying to spot differences from that visit. The room doesn't look like it's aged a day. There's witch-lights bobbing through the space, causing a low thrum of sedir to push gently against his senses. The room itself is mostly open, beds spread out and separated by long sheets. Healing sigils carved into almost every square inch of the walls. Vanir and their sigils.

Medical equipment is tossed to and fro, though, and despite the overall appearance of clean, the more he looks the more of a mess becomes visible.

Unlike last time, where Thor was the only patient besides a wailing newborn, the room is overfilled, causing Vanir to spill out on the ground and occupy as much space as possible while still leaving walking space. There are easily fifty cots, but it isn't enough for the ill. Loki's brow furrows.

The staff looks stretched, but there aren't nearly as many aides as there should be in a situation like this, which means they're also unwell, or there's another room full of the sick that they're also looking out for. Loki's betting on the latter.

The patients don't...it's hard to describe. There's seems to be a split difference, with no gray areas: they're either borderline catatonic, staring up listlessly and twitching every so often, or violently fighting against restraints meant to keep still and screaming, babbling, or begging for help. The sound is jolting and rattling, making something in his chest squeeze with discomfort.

The catatonic, separated from the screeching, mad group in some form of isolation, appear to be undergoing some sort of transformation. Skin is peeling off or missing in large chunks leaving raw muscle exposed, sometimes bone, and a few are spouting features that are nothing short of animalistic. What looks like horns, wings, claws, anything and everything. They're shapeshifting into something. Slowly.

Knowing the pain of bones snapping in and out of shape as they adjust, Loki's gut twists with sympathy. He's managed to get the transition down to a few seconds at most, but they often leaving him panting and his vision white for a few seconds. He can't imagine the agony of it happening over what must be _days._

Governor Tusin is right. This would completely swallow up the focus of the capital. With this occupying their time, Loki doesn't know how they _noticed_ the Blodig Skog was becoming a problem. They didn't give them enough credit. Then again, the governor also made it sound like a bad case of food poisoning, not...this.

"Help me," a woman pleads, coughing raggedly. Blood dribbles down her chin. A trembling hand lifts out to him, and Loki thinks she looks vaguely familiar, but he can't place from where.

He skitters to a stop, unsure if he should reach for her and see if there's something he can do to appease her suffering. She's looking directly at him, glossy eyes red-tinged. Her skin is rubbed raw around her hands, scraped down to what he suspects is finger bones beneath the bandages. His mouth parts wordlessly. His chest is constricting further. He can't get in a full breath, and he doesn't know if he's supposed to do something.

"Help..." the woman moans.

"I don't..." Loki whispers. _I don't know how. I don't know if I can. I don't know if it's possible._

A hand grips his elbow in a pointed, but firm gesture and pulls him forward, yanking him into the present. Loki's steps fumble for a moment before he can catch his balance, and he looks up to see Thor watching him from the corner of his eye. Loki ducks his head. Maybe it's a testament to how rattled he feels by this sudden discovery, but he doesn't yank his arm away from his brother. The head healer—Loki can't remember her name—doesn't stop. She moves through the ill with practiced ease, not pausing once. She nods a few times in acknowledgement when some of her staff call out greetings, but that's it.

Finally, they exit the large, open space and enter a hall. It leads off to doors, and sometimes warded, but open walls of sedir for observation. Loki spots a few creatures—is that a _griffin?—_ behind the sedir walls, but tries not to let his gaze linger. He doesn't understand what's going on, and he's afraid to break the silence to ask. A quiet hush has fallen over their group, and the solemn mood feels like a penance for their healthy state.

The head healer finally stops suddenly and opens a door, gesturing for them to take a step inside. Loki hesitates, but follows after Thor when his brother squares his shoulders and steps inside.

Loki hadn't realized the healing wing was so big. He'd only be in the patient recovery area when Thor nearly lost his fingers. This room better resembles what he knows well from Asgard. He spots a soul forge, and a few other bits of Asgardian medical technology before spotting the dozen or so aides standing aimlessly.

The Vanir head healer turns to face them, something tight in the expression she gives them. She doesn't smile, or try to explain, just gives them a long, tired stare, before stating flatly: "You see the state of my people out there?" her accent is clipped. She wasn't born noble. Allspeak is only given to the nobility, and their children, so to have an accent means she learned Asgardian by study.

Loki pauses at her question, uncertain if it's rhetorical or not.

It must be, because she adds a moment later, " _That_ is the state you should have crawled from the Blodig Skog in. You are living miracles." It's said like an accusation.

Loki can't help glancing back towards the door.

That...

_That's what they should be?_

Loki feels a little stung with surprise and glances to Thor for a moment, uncertain what to _do_ with that information. He knows logically that they're supposed to be mad, read about the cases from books, and _saw_ the Weeping Siren's state, but to actually see what it means…

That's different.

It's like being backhanded.

Yes, the state they're in isn't what they walked _into_ the Blodig Skog in, but they aren't...like that.

"Then how…?" Sif's voice is quiet. She sounds younger than she is, and Loki has to strain his neck muscles so he won't look back at her by instinct. It would, much to his annoyance, break "proper protocol."

"That's what we're trying to understand. I just thought you should know how lucky you are." The words are sour. Everything about this woman seems a little bitter, like their very existence grinds against her own.

She waves a hand slightly, and her awaiting aides move, walking towards them. "Everyone will be assigned an aide. So long as there are no complications, this shouldn't take too long."

Having spent time in the healing wing before, Loki knows that's probably an empty platitude and braces himself.

000o000

The tests aren't exactly physical, but they're exhausting all the same. The aide he's assigned, a young woman by the name of Farr is quiet, but effective. He's pushed through the soul forge first, then forced into a seat so she can weave some sort of machine through his hair so she can look at his brain. She pushes and prods with her sedir, and Loki forces some of his defenses to fall so she has the ability to look where she wants to. It's uncomfortable and invasive. It takes all the self control he has not to simply throw up the wards and walls again, then watch her stumble back as her sedir is pushed from him forcefully.

Loki puts his subconscious in charge and retreats to the back of his mind, pretending that this entire experience isn't happening and doesn't bother him. Every time he opens his mouth to ask Farr to stop or take a break, he thinks about the babbling insanity just down the hall. He can endure a little discomfort if it will help them get better.

He'll be honest in admitting he's in a bit of a mood when she's beginning to wrap up at _last_ after long hours, then, as "just one last thing," she turns to him with an empty syringe. Loki's stomach drops to his feet and his breathing stops for a moment.

_The first few are always the worst, son, it will get easier from here._

Farr doesn't seem to notice the breath skitter, and says something about blood—taking his blood, maybe—and then reaches for his arm. No. He's— _no._

Loki's remaining open defenses slam upwards again, and Farr yanks back from him sharply, her brow furrowing as the inevitable headache pushes against her skull from being pushed out of his aura. He winces somewhat in sympathy, but he doesn't back down. He forces out a panicked, half breath and shakes his head. "No."

"I just need to take some blood," Farr rubs at her forehead, sending him a somewhat dark, exhaustedly pointed look. "Then we're done. You think you can manage that?"

The syringe gleams in the hard light.

His jaw grits.

He doesn't...she's not putting a needle in his arm. Not unless she knocks him unconscious first. He thinks about that woman with her bandaged hands, then his eyes close for a moment as he submits.

"Give it to me. I'll do it." He reaches out his hand expectantly, and Farr stares at him for a moment, brow drawn together, clearly puzzled.

"It's no trouble for me, Your Highness."

"I do it, or it doesn't happen."

"I doubt you know—"

"I'm medically trained, _I know where to find a vein,"_ he bites sharply on the acid, but his tone is still harder than it should have been. Farr's eyes tighten around the edges at his tone, and she drops the empty syringe into his awaiting palm. Having the needle makes him sick, and his mouth tastes like blood. Frigga used to inject him with water when he couldn't sleep without the familiar pinpricking.

The room they entered maybe an hour ago suddenly feels like open exposure. His arms. If she _sees_ the marks and recent scars...she'll know. _She'll know,_ and Farr is one of the last people on this planet or any other that he wants to bare witness to what he's done.

His hand is trembling, and he clenches his fingers around the syringe, feeling childish.

But he can't stop the need.

He looks up at Farr, who is waiting expectantly. "Would you...I'm…" his mouth fumbles around words for a moment. "Will you leave?"

Now she's looking at him like he's one breath from his already fragile sanity snapping. His jaw twitches, annoyance, fear and frustration burning in his stomach. "I'm sure you've heard some gossip spat around about what happened to me with the Weeping Siren." He says, keeping his tone as flat as he can. It doesn't even tremor, lifeless, "It's this or nothing. How many vials do you want?"

Farr looks at obvious war with herself, but sighs and grabs two more small bottles to be interchanged with the one already present in the syringe, then pushes hair from her face and leaves the room with muttered comment he doesn't quite catch. Judging by the tone, that's probably for the best.

A breath comes gushing out of him when the door closes and he takes a moment to close his eyes and refill his lungs slowly. The syringe feels awful in his hands. Weighted. Heavy.

Painful.

Loki sets it on the bench beside him, lifting up his right hand to slowly remove the straps for the vambrace, then yanks up his dark sleeve to the elbow. His arm looks slightly bruised and he rubs his thumb absently over a raw cut, grounding himself with the pain. They hurt, of course they hurt, but it's a relief. The compression in his chest eases, like the danger of imploding can be whisked away by drawing blood.

Ridiculous.

But truth.

Loki sighs heavily and opens his eyes, flipping his arm so his forearm is resting up against his thigh. He stares at the pale skin for a moment. His arms looked bruised for weeks while the abused veins healed, making them look splotchy as well as swollen. It didn't help that while the veins healed, sedir finally started pumping through his body again, making his entire body ache for weeks on end.

Now it looks mockingly normal.

Loki traces the vein he wants to use up to the elbow, then with more skill than he really cares for, inserts the needle. The pain is familiar. Cold fingers touching against his arm, murmured assurances and the dull, lifeless feeling that encaptured him while sedir was trapped, pinned, corroding inside of him.

_The first few days are always the worst._

Loki finishes drawing the blood, yanks down his sleeve and wraps the vambrace back on and pushes his thumb into the inside of his wrist before opening the door and handing the warm vials to Farr. She nods, clearly distracted and points him down the hall.

"Kia wants to speak with you," she says, "after that, you can wait for the Lady Sif and Lord Fandral to finish."

He's not entirely sure who Kia is, but nods anyway, probably a little too happy to be leaving her presence.

Kia, as it turns out, is the Vanir head healer's name. She looks up from papers she's staring over as he approaches and gives him a visual once over. Her lips are pressed into an unhappy line that she parts with what looks like effort as he approaches. She doesn't bother with a greeting, instead lifts up the paper, "You have sedir."

How does she make every sentence seem like a threat?

He blinks. "Yes?"

Kia shakes her head somewhat, looking baffled. "Everyone out there," she gestures towards the sick bay, "have traces of it, or are inborns. The more powerful, the worse off they are. You saw the...things they're turning into. That should have been you."

Something cold settles in his stomach as he remembers the deformed limbs of the sick.

His mouth feels dry. "But?"

"This." She lifts up the paper so close to his face it almost smacks against his nose. Irritated, he pushes it down and stares at it for a second. It's the readout from the soul forge, but it doesn't make a lick of sense. He knows what it's supposed to look like, and this is far from that.

He blinks, but it remains the same.

He cants his head, "Is that...warding? What is that?"

It looks like someone took his normal energy, then cut it open, leaving a raw, open wound to fester. It's open above his ribs, and should hurt, but he didn't even know it was there until a few seconds ago. The gash is cut in some sort of symbol he doesn't recognize. About as long as his palm, and open across the middle of his ribs, acting as some sort of drain for a faint dark energy. It's seeping inside the cut, but it's faint, like it's been slowly dying out since he left the Blodig Skog.

But he didn't even know he was infected.

His left hand lifts up to his ribcage, but he can't feel any wound. Prodding at it with his sedir reveals the same thing. Whatever the symbol is, he's numb to it.

"Maybe." Lady Eir says behind him. He barely contains a jump, but turns to look at her anyway. She's peering at the readouts from behind him, a similar one in her own hands. "It looks like extensive spellwork, must've taken days. You and the Warriors all have it. My best guess? This is from the Weeping Siren."

He drops the readout, suddenly sickened.

She tainted him. Her disgusting spellwork and presence is still clawing into him.

Kia frowns, "I would say it's warding. Not individual, see," she lifts up Loki's report and holds it against someone else's. Sif's, he thinks, but the words on the papers aren't forming words. "They're exact replicas. You don't get that with individual work."

"That's true," Eir concedes, leaning closer to the readouts. "That doesn't mean that it's not the Weeping Siren."

Loki forces down nausea. "What about Thor? You said that it's all over me and the Warriors, but he hardly interacted with...her."

Kia shakes her head. "He must've. He's got the same symbol."

 _When? Why?_ The Weeping Siren left Thor to _die._ She tried to sever his tibial artery when she crushed the bone. If she'd meant to keep him, she'd have brought him back to the cellar. Thor wandered in those woods for months and came out more or less sane. Nothing like the Vanir in the room behind them.

But if it wasn't her, then what _did_ this?

Lady Eir sighs, "Not that it really matters I suppose. Is this the main oddity you've found?"

Kia's eyes turn back to him. "Is it true that you were given Aetheitin for the duration of your stay with her?"

Stay? That makes it seem like they just joined together for some tea.

That tension clenches inside him again. "Yes." He grits between his teeth.

Kia's nods. "That was probably for the best. We've been giving it some of our patients. It seems to stave of symptoms."

What?

Lady Eir's lips downturn. "That's not a long-term solution."

Aetheitin staves of symptoms. _It stops symptoms._ They're covered in warding they didn't walk onto Vanaheim with, and left with sanity more or less intact. The Weeping Siren may not have been giving him the drug to simply pacify him. What if...she knew about this sickness...and she gave it to him so he wouldn't succumb...

The thought makes him sick.

And another almost makes him vomit.

Fandral. He got sick. They all assumed it was because of the rain. But Fandral's family bears little talent for sedir, and the Warriors are basically bone-dry in that department. All of them, and the children in the cellar. Just because Aetheitin repressed his sedir doesn't mean he couldn't sense it.

Fandral may have caught whatever this is anyway, but because he doesn't have symptoms the sickness was mild. And in a sick way, the Weeping Siren isolated _him_ from Fandral by letting him take the punishments. She must've known about this, and she didn't care to tell anyone about it.

The madness.

But now it's spreading with the forest.

The Weeping Siren's violence may have been mostly meaningless, but the Aetheitin...that…

Loki removes himself as discreetly as he can from the conversation and finds an empty washroom. He vomits and shakes, shuddering violently against the wall as he pushes his head down against his knees and tries to assure himself that he's fine.

000o000

Loki sits stiffly down on the waiting bench and tries to ignore the sounds of the ill within sight from where they're seated. When Sif and Fandral join them, they're ushered upstairs. After enduring an awkward dinner with extended family, Loki retreats to the guest bedroom he's sharing with Thor.

He collapses on the bed, boneless, and refuses to move when Frigga arrives a little later with Odin. There's a murmured conversation that he doesn't have the willpower to muddle through, and then Frigga brushes a hand through his dark hair and presses a kiss against his forehead. Their presence is a little weird, but he assumes they're here to see what the Vanir did.

Loki wonders if they've seen the sick.

They're haunting; an image burned into the inside of his eyelids.

When Loki's pushed from his half-drifting, half awake state, his parents are gone, and Thor is missing from the other bed. He squints into the dark, but his sedir senses no one else in the room with him. Muttering a light curse under his breath, Loki silently promises his sibling that if he decided to get drunk, he's going to stab him.

Loki shoves up with effort, detangling himself from the blanket someone threw over him at some point in the last few hours, getting to his feet. He sways somewhat, but manages to hold his balance. Thor was quiet during dinner, which means that he's upset, which…

Loki looks towards the doors towards the balcony and rubs sleep from his raw eyes as he moves for them. The air is cold enough that his breath steams, but it doesn't bother him. Thor isn't within sight, but he wasn't expecting him to be. Turning his gaze up towards the roof, Loki spots a dangling leg.

He's been doing it since they were children, climbing to the highest point available—as if Thor can find a place that will finally allow the clouds to embrace him.

Loki resolutely doesn't look down as he clambers up beside his sibling, biting on his tongue sharply when he slips somewhat. His arms ache dully, but not enough that it stops him. He keeps focusing up, and tries not to think about what a fall from this height would entail. Not death, which Loki thinks might be the worst part, you'd have to remember every moment of the fall and then the crack at the bottom.

Silently cursing the elder for his stupid perching habit when he slips again, Loki startles somewhat when a hand wraps around his wrist. Thor looks at him with an expression Loki can't quite decipher, but nonetheless hauls him up so he's no longer on the sharp incline of the rooftop.

Thor holds onto him for a moment longer, obviously checking to make sure he's not going to fall. When Loki doesn't, he pulls his hand back and returns his gaze to facing the rolling hills in the distance. Loki frowns somewhat, drawing up a knee and resting his chin on it. He can't see the Blodig Skog from here, for which he's not mourning.

Thor looks at him between long strands of blond hair. "What are you doing up here? You hate heights."

Loki winces. He does. At least Thor isn't teasing him mercilessly about it tonight, just stating a fact. "Have you slept at all?" he evades instead.

Thor shrugs. "Not really." He admits. Loki doesn't say anything, and Thor heaves out a breath, "Did you see the warding?" Loki straightens, pushing his lips together. He gives a slight nod. Thor shakes his head somewhat, "I didn't think...Tjan has it, too. They didn't know about it because Eir never put any of us under a soul forge. I don't think she saw a need. All this time, it's just been sitting there..."

Thor rubs at his face.

Loki brushes dark hair from his eyes as the wind plays with it. He feels tired, but taut.

"She's supposed to be dead," Loki whispers, an admission that he didn't plan on saying. "She's supposed to be...and she's still here. Still effecting us. Still…" he turns his head away, and pushes his finger into his wrist.

"I know." Thor murmurs.

"I thought it was over."

"I know. I did, too."

They both watch the dark swaying fields for a long few minutes in silence. Loki rubs his thumb along the bone of his knee and then faces his sibling, afraid to ask the question, but wanting an answer all the same. "What now?"

Thor's only answer is a wordless shake of his head, but he doesn't need to say anything. _I don't know_ is portrayed without a problem. Loki turns his head forward and miserably wonders who _does._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I just. Rough few months, as I'm sure you are all acquainted with. My mental health took a dive, and writing has been exhausting. Still kicking, though. Re-planned the story like, twice. But what am I if not meticulous? Thanks for your support. Sorry the spacing between chapters has gone from weekly to who-knows-when.
> 
> Next chapter: Before August.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for your comments and support. They mean the world to me. :)
> 
> Warnings: Panic attack, severe dissociative episode, some gore/imagery.

* * *

" _All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red."_

-Kait Rokowski

* * *

The healing wing beckons them the next morning. Having spent a majority of the night awake and listening to Loki not sleep, Thor is already irritable when sunlight peaks over the horizon. Loki seems to take that as all the invitation he needs to stop pretending that he's resting, and disappears into the washroom.

Thor shoves up, runs a hand through his tousled hair and sighs with resignation when he realizes he doesn't care if he has a bedhead. _Show of the State indeed._ He's exhausted, but his stomach is pierced with anxious holes, and he fears if he tries to lay down again, all his sanity will bleed out through them.

What feels like forever, but is probably only a few minutes, Loki exits loo collected and brushing a few strands of his slicked hair back. The shorter strands fall out of place next to his ears, and Thor raises his eyebrows somewhat. "It's beautiful, brother. Very warrior-like."

Loki lugs a dagger at him with a scowl.

Thor leans back a little, but it's unheeded. Loki's either too tired to aim properly, or didn't want to take the chance of Thor's morning reflexes. Not that it'd be a problem, given that he didn't sleep. The weapon misses miserably, clattering to the floor.

"You're one to talk." Loki mutters, managing to get the pieces tucked behind his ears.

"At least mine isn't soft like a flower."

"Do you want me to hit you, brother?"

Thor's mood lifts a little at the banter. Loki doesn't...he hasn't really done this in a while. He just...reacts, not acts. His sibling still looks miserable, but at least he's _talking._ Wary, and not wanting to overstep his boundaries by pointing anything out, Thor smirks a little, like this is _before._

"I actually need to feel afraid for it to be a threat," he says smoothly. His brother throws a shirt at him, and Thor flinches a little, unexpecting the sudden assault. It covers his head, and he pulls it away from his face. Loki is turned away from him. His shoulders are rigid, and his entire body seems like it's one moment away from snapping. The moment of normalcy is over.

Thor's shoulders slump a little.

Quietly, he gets up and tosses the shirt at his brother's bed.

Breakfast passes too quickly, and they're back in the healing wing, running tests. The nurse he's paired with is considerably less chatty than yesterday's, and it forces a solemn mood on him. Appropriate, given the circumstances, he supposes, but not welcomed.

They don't learn a thing beyond what they'd already gathered yesterday. Not surprising, given that Eir just wanted to run the soul forge over them all again, but still.

He wishes that this _meant_ something.

People are suffering, and he can't do a Norns-cursed thing about it.

They're released, and Thor attempts to keep himself useful by helping take care of the sick. Basic first aid is required for the army, and Thor's patched up too many battle wounds to be bad at it. But sickness is something different, and though he knows intellectually what he should be doing, he still flounders a little.

Regardless, the overworked staff seems grateful for his (and the Warriors, who have refused to leave) contribution. Loki stuffs himself in beside Eir, trying to help figure out what all the sigils are, and how to replicate them. Or how to make it into a potion? Something like that. Other sedir-related things that Thor doesn't understand.

Hours later, they're finally shooed from the room for the evening meal. With Vanaheim's royal family. Again. It's only to be expected, honestly, but that doesn't make him any more excited about it. He knows that his attitude shows as he's seated, judging from the look his mother gives him.

Thor forces his face to relax.

And focus very hard on something beyond who he's seated next to.

Minutes drain. Thor's teeth grit. The soup they're eating is hot.

As covertly as he can, Thor downs the entire glass of water in an attempt to help the burning sensation. It doesn't really help. His mouth still feels uncomfortably warm and strangely sticky. His lips are doing that numb-thing that feels like they're about to burn off his face or swell.

He buries a grimace behind the glass, then slowly sets it back on the table with regret.

Water's supposed to help spice. It holds nothing against Vanir food. Never has, and Thor suspects it never will.

At least it's some sort of consolation that Loki seems to be having the same problem beside him, picking through the soup like it's in danger of harming him. Shoulders hunched and face slightly leaning forward, he looks like he's trying not to be sick all over the table. He knows that this is meant to be an honor to dine with the royal family, that they've prepared what they can to try and impress the head of Asgard, but Thor would have been perfectly happy if they'd left it completely bland.

That, miserably, reminds him of the commonplace joke he's heard too many times in his travels: That Asgard was actually looking for flavor in their food when they were conquering the Nine. Personally, he thinks the flavor is perfectly fine, but he's been told many times that's because "Asgardian food doesn't have any flavor at all."

From the other side of the table, Fandral subtly kicks him. Thor lifts his gaze up somewhat to the swordsman in time to catch the wide-eyed, pained face he shoots at him. Thor presses his lips together and flicks his gaze in the direction of the water in question.

Fandral shakes his head, eyes pinching at the sides in hopelessness.

A year ago, this might've made him laugh. In the space of everything _now_ , it seems just...pointless.

Thor drags his spoon through the soup and tries to remember how to be hungry.

Sif shoots Fandral a pointed look, and he makes a face of complaint that she rolls her eyes in response for. The restraint on their voices is something he doubts would have happened last year, either. Norns, who _are_ they?

"Thor?" the voice is calm. Thor still feels himself tense up despite it, and is suddenly reminded why he's been so focused on the food. He quickly shuffles a spoonful into his mouth and braces himself. He tilts his head as he chews. The soup tastes like ash as he glances at Tjan's face.

His cousin is staring at him. Dark hair is hanging on the sides of his face. Shadowed eyes smeared with lines meet him. This is the third time that he's tried to start a conversation. Thor can't keep ignoring it without it becoming obvious that he's doing so.

Thor forces himself to swallow. "Yes?"

He shouldn't have drunk all the water.

Tjan's lips part with what looks like some effort. "I…I..." he seems to fumble, like he has no idea what he's going to say now that he actually has Thor's attention. "How...how are you, cousin?"

Thor's teeth grind. Mindless conversation. Sure. _Let's do that._ "How would you expect?"

Tjan winces a little, hand clenching around the spoon. His other is resting next to the bowl, and clutching so tightly at the white tablecloth that his knuckles are washed of color. "I'm...I'm not sure, to be honest. I'd hoped you to be better than I am, at least."

Right.

"And how would that be?"

Tjan's lips downturn, pinch, then release. "Are you angry with me?"

He seems genuinely surprised by that idea. Thor closes his eyes for a moment, wrapping his patience together. Tjan was possessed from the moment they met in the tavern to when they entered Asgard, only finally freed by his mother. His actions weren't his own. But it's not the Weeping Siren that he remembers in those woods.

She broke his leg. Tjan and his remaining men broke something else.

Thor opens his mouth to retort, but Loki's hand lands on his shoulder. A warning. Thor realizes at that moment that one of Tjan's older brothers, Han, is staring at them without even trying to hide it. Next to his younger sibling, he could probably get Thor in the face if he threw cutlery. A part of Thor is both grateful that Loki spotted it, and sour at it.

He shouldn't _need_ his little brother to look out for him.

He doesn't want him to.

He wants to leave this stupid table. He wishes that their parents hadn't agreed to this dinner. That they didn't have to spend the entire day in the healing wing again, being probed like poking at them enough is actually going to solve anything. Wishes fervently that he could crawl back to bed, _in Asgard,_ and try and sleep this off.

And, while he's at it, he wishes that whoever was in charge of seating had the decency to seat Tjan on the other side of the table. That's what they did yesterday, though that might have been an exhausted mistake rather than intentional.

Thor would rather chew off his own foot than talk with his cousin.

"I'm not exactly happy with you, no," Thor admits, his voice more level than he was expecting. Loki sighs, like he'd wanted Thor to stay quiet, but hadn't been expecting it.

For some reason, that annoys him, too.

"But that wasn't me," Tjan says softly. "I didn't...I wouldn't have done any of what I did if I'd been thinking clearly."

Sure. But he's never been a pleasant person to begin with in the first place, so it doesn't exactly earn him any bonus points. The fact that Thor _didn't_ notice that he was possessed (had suspicions something was off, but he didn't suspect that) should be an indication enough of that.

Han tips his head slightly with a warning glare, daring Thor to say something.

Thor bristles a little.

He wants to fight. Wants something to punch, because frustration is intangible, but Tjan isn't. But no matter how appealing slugging him would be, it's unprincley, and his parents are seated at the table. His mother would kill him. Tjan is her nephew. And they're her sister's guests.

Thor glances at his younger sibling and sees the tight, frustrated expression lingering on the hard edges of his thin face. Anger bleeds out of him when he realizes that Loki is preparing himself to deal with the mess Thor's anger will bring. It's a familiar look.

Thor's fists clench slightly.

_No,_ he thinks.

He turns his gaze back to the soup, tilting his body away from his cousins, but that's the extent of it. No fist fight, no verbal brawl. Just childish silent treatment.

Across the table, Thor sees his mother cough lightly into her hand, as if she's withholding herself from saying something. Weirdly, though, she's not looking at him when she does it.

000o000

Blink. Breathe. Sleep. Eat. Cough. Tired. Aetheitin.

They pass four more days in this pattern, all with nothing to show for it. More sick are brought in, none are allowed to leave. Sixteen die before anything can be done for them, limbs skewed and bones sticking out wrong. Sometimes through skin. Deformities that make them look bent, hollow, and victims of a fall.

_Slow shapeshifting,_ is what Kia says when Thor asks.

Why? He wants to return, but doesn't. No one knows. His question will only frustrate her. It isn't insanity. It isn't even a normal plague. Only really affecting those with sedir, turning them into...something. Thor loses track of how many doses of Aetheitin he slides into veins in an attempt to alleviate the symptoms.

It makes him sick, thinking of Loki coming off of the drug. The haunted, vacant look to his eyes. Seeing the sedir running through his veins, and the agony that it caused. The words _brain dead_ still haunt him.

And he's doing that to these patients. On purpose.

Some of them are lucid, and they'll attempt to talk with him. He tries to keep up a cheerful front, but he understands why Vanaheim is crumbling under the weight of this. They've lasted a month. Thor hasn't been here a week, but it feels like he's lived through a decade.

Fever check, grab more blankets, water, Aetheitin, repeat.

Say something to the Warriors, check on Loki, return to some meal, sleep.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Five more dead. Limbs bent. Eyes painted white. Lips blue from asphyxiation. Asphyxiated or exsanguinated, the only two choices for death by this.

Loki's all but vanished behind a pile of books Kia has hauled inside, and after day two, his parents join the search. Thor is put through another soul forge, then another, and wonders why they think they're going to get a different result after the fourth time.

(They don't. He thinks it just makes them feel better.)

000o000

"It's not the Weeping Siren," Eir says, and sets a thick stack of papers down on the table. Thor decides that must've been Loki's idea. Loki always thinks things out better when he writes it out on physical paper, even though it's more work.

Lin frowns, leaning forward. Eir, the Vanir royal family, their head healer, his family and a few others he doesn't recognize are all gathered around the small table in what Thor suspects is Lin's office. He's not sure, because he's never been in the office before.

"I don't understand," Freya says, brow furrowed. She reaches for the papers, but her hands stop before she can touch them, as if the single touch will infect her. Thor tilts his head a little, confused. Freya plows forward like nothing happened. "What else would it be?"

"Pardon my hastiness," Eir says, formally, unlike what she would normally do if this was just Thor's parents. _Look,_ Thor wants to whisper to Loki, _she is capable of respect._ He suddenly aches for the Warriors Four. Or a time when things were easier. He's standing next to his father, and he thinks the king wouldn't take the joke very well. "As you know, we've been going over the sigils for the last few days, trying to find differences between them. Or how to replicate them, but working backwards through spells isn't my expertise." Eir continues.

"It's mine," his mother interrupts lightly.

Eir shoots her a pointed, slightly annoyed look.

_Ah._ There she is.

His mother braces a hand on the tabletop, "The point is that the sigils are exactly the same, but it's not the same spell caster." She shuffles some of the papers forward, the soul forges, and taps at one. "The one's done to my son, Tjan and his men weren't done by the Weeping Siren."

That hangs for a moment. Thor recovers himself, and clenches his hands by his sides. "Then who was it?" blurts out of him, even though he's probably not supposed to be talking right now. Eyes swing to him, and Thor wavers underneath their stare for a moment.

Kia releases a long, weighted breath and shakes her head. "We don't know."

Oh.

Lin leans back a little, lifting a hand to his face, rubbing at his mouth. "That's unfortunate." Understatement. No one comments on that, though, and lets the king gather his thoughts. "If there's a separate caster, was there a different sedir wielder in the forest we're unaware of? Nephew?"

Eyes swing back to Thor.

He fumbles for a second. "I, uh," he gets out. Then forces himself to relax. This isn't the first time he's been asked questions. He's the prince of Asgard, for the Norn's sake. "Not that I remember."

Kia purses her lips. "Casting a spell like this would have taken well over two hours. Is there any unaccounted for time where you woke up more tired than usual? Maybe you saw a shape you've discounted as your imagination?"

"Don't you think if I thought there was someone else out there, I would have mentioned it by now?"

"Son," Odin's voice is a warning. Not angry, but Thor still feels himself bunch up.

"I don't remember any sort of sorcerer," Tjan says after a moment of quiet, and Thor tries not to grit his teeth together. _You hardly remember anything._ "But there were four of us. If it takes a minimum of two hours for each spell, that's a good portion of a single day. Why would none of us remember that? Would the sorcerer force us to forget it?"

The thought of someone influencing his thoughts like that makes him sick.

Thor thinks about the sorcerers that Tjan said he lost in the Blodig Skog. Maybe…

"We don't know," Frigga says, and coughs sharply into her hand. She looks down at it for a second, and Thor sees something in her eyes before her fist closes, "My apologies. We have to consider the possibility that they may be the source of the sudden spread."

But if that's the case, they're killing people.

So _why_ would the sorcerer save Thor and a handful of possessed Vanir?

Lin pales a little, sharing a look with Freya. Thor's father cants his head, "Is there something you would like to share with us, Lin?"

"No. We—I," the king stumbles over himself for a moment before shaking his head. "In order for a sorcerer to release the Blodig Skog like that...they'd have to be powerful. There are rumors of guardians that were charged with keeping the forest contained. But if they could contain it, they could release it. Perhaps…"

"I've never heard of any guardians," Loki murmurs. He's standing on the other side of Eir, and has been looking at the papers for much of the conversation. As he speaks, he seems to draw himself upright.

Lin shakes his head, "You don't have nearly half the lore on this forest that we do, boy."

Loki bristles a little. Not obvious. Thor clenches his fists.

"But it doesn't make him ignorant." Odin counters. "Loki is well versed in many subjects, and Asgard's libraries aren't little."

Loki's eyes lift to their father, slightly wide.

"Odin—he's right. There _are_ rumors. Most of which are told by word of mouth." Frigga stops to muffle another cough. Thor's eyes narrow a little, a sense of dread coiling in his stomach. "Are you suggesting that one of these...guardians preformed the sigil?" Lin nods, "Then how did the Weeping Siren know of it?"

Lin hesitates. "I'm uncertain. Perhaps she stole it from them."

Eir sighs, "This is complex magic, your majesty. It's something you have to be taught. You can't just take it from someone's head or mimic them. Why do you think we're having such troubles replicating it?"

The question is rhetorical, and Freya seems to ghost over it completely, "Alright, throwing myth aside, there _is_ someone out there who knows how to perform the spell and we _need_ to know that if we're going to have any chance of stopping this epidemic before it spreads to cover all of Vanaheim. Someone has to go out there and find them, and the _only_ people we know of that are immune to the Blodig Skog's effects are—"

"No." The voice isn't his. Or Loki's. It's a unanimous declaration from their parents in sync.

Freya slumps, looking to her sister, "Frigga—"

"I'm _not_ putting my children or their companions through that again. Find someone else." Frigga demands, "The only reason we agreed to come was because _you_ said we would just have to stay within the palace. Run tests. They aren't ready to go running around through that Norns cursed place again."

No. They're not. But he can see Freya's point.

Loki looks like he might be sick, face white and drained of all color. Thor wishes they were standing closer.

"Our people are dying," Freya pleads, "we don't have any other choice."

"Would you risk _your_ son, then?" Odin's voice is sharp. "He's as immune to it as mine."

The argument escalates from there. Like words are a battering ram that can be used to beat the others down into shape. The auras of the room are getting thick with anger, words bouncing and bouncing.

Thor doesn't say a word. Loki doesn't either, even though everyone else seems to have an opinion. This is probably why Eir wanted to share her theories with a small group first. Because they've—

"Our only other option is a handful of children! It's them or no one. They lasted _months_ and are unharmed!"

_Oh, Norns._ Thor breathes. In. Out. He should be panicking, but he only feels deathly calm. Like it's a veil he's hiding behind. They're really is no backing out of this. They're going to have to return, but it won't be Loki's nightmare, running around in that stupid field, it will be _his._

They're going to have to go out there and find a stupid wizard so he can fix this problem.

Which makes sense.

It does.

Thor doesn't know if he can watch any more of the Vanir people's limbs distort, or the Aetheitin, or watching them cough up blood as their insides deform first, then the bones and—

Thor stops.

He looks at his mother, and sees blood speckling the tips of her hand where he can see it. She was coughing. But she wasn't _coughing._ Oh, Allfathers.

_No._

His breath catches in his throat, in his chest. He doesn't breathe and doesn't try to.

The argument ends in a stalemate. As of today, their fate is not to storm into the forest, but Thor's not sure of that's for the best. Part of him is irritated. This should be his and the others' decision, not their parents.

Frigga coughs again, and Thor expels the air, hard. He should say something. Yank her down to the healing wing, but all he wants to do is cover his eyes and try to be ignorant. He needs to...needs to...

Blood on her hand. Blood. Blood, blood, blood...

000o000

Day five vanishes, and Thor blinks and is suddenly upstairs in his and Loki's shared guest room, trying to scrub blood off of his hands in the sink and breathing heavily. It's not coming off, stuck underneath his nails. He doesn't know where it came from, if it's his or someone else's. Red painting the sides of his nails, touching at his skin.

_No,_ he thinks.

He scrubs harder. His skin starts to come off in small flakes and big peels. It's red underneath. More blood. His fingers look a little skewed and he thinks he's going to vomit. He's leaning on his right side, because any weight on his left leg sends fire up to his hip, nearly paralyzing him. Too much walking. He needs the cane.

He wants to…

He doesn't know what he wants.

No that's wrong. The blood. The blood to come off— _Off, off, off._

Scrape, clean, dig. Everything is a set of patterns now. A ritual to be followed. People are dying. He's useless. His head hurts. Why does everything feel so far away? Are those _his_ hands? No. He's pretty sure that they're not. His face feels funny. Numb. Something is leaching from him, and he needs to keep it there, but he doesn't know what it is.

Ritual.

Scrape.

Clean.

It doesn't even hurt. It probably should. That's a lot of blood. But these aren't his hands, so why _would_ it hurt?

You can't fight an illness.

Useless. Like his leg. Like…

" _What are you doing!?"_ the voice is almost piercing. Panicked. Thor lifts his head a little from the sink to see Loki staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Thor tilts his head a little, wondering what could make his sibling look like that. Loki breaks across the space, grabbing Thor's wrists and yanking them from the water. It's steaming in the sink.

There's still blood. He needs to get it _off._

"Loki." He slurs.

"Oh, Allfathers," Loki hisses, then swears several times as he yanks Thor from the bathroom towards the bed. He shoves him down, careful to keep the hands from brushing against his knees. He's gripping the hands, and all the blood. Loki's murmuring something, then looks up. "Can't you _feel_ this!?" Loki sounds a little frantic.

"Those aren't my hands." Thor says.

"Aren't your…" his brother falters.

His sibling is very far away.

All those misaligned limbs. Looked like his leg those days in the Blodig Skog. The weird angle his calf had taken, despite all his attempts to straighten it out. Tjan had been there. Still possessed. Thor never really got the time to sit still because he had to keep Tjan and the two other survivors of his guard from killing him. It was like being hunted for months, and Thor grew very tired.

Cloth wraps around the hands Loki's holding, Thor doesn't know where it came from, and then they're carefully—oh so carefully, like they're delicate and precious—set on his lap. Thor doesn't move them. He wants to keep scraping the blood away, but he can't use those hands to do it. They're scraped, stiff, and unresponsive.

The cloth is turning red.

There's the faint scent of pine needles, Loki vanishes. Then he returns, their mother in tow. He's saying something, but Thor doesn't want to process the words. Too far away. He's going to float.

His mother says something to him.

He says nothing.

She carefully unwraps the hands and Thor watches her eyes widen a little at the sight. Red-rimmed electric blue. She looks a little flushed. Sick. _I already knew that,_ is what comes up, and Thor's mind blanks for a moment.

Then he remembers. Watching Frigga cough into her hand, palm lightly blood splattered, but she'd hidden it quickly, and Thor remembers thinking _no._ That's when thinks started to blank. When his hands started to get bloody.

Because he can't—

He can't—

_Norns—_

Loki is rubbing at his arm. He's been doing that a lot since they got here. Unconsciously, Thor thinks, but it's still the rub all the same. Every so often, he'll wince a little.

His mother asks him something again and Thor just blinks at her. Loki leans down and, under the direction of something their mother is saying, pushes against the bloody left palm. Not his. He tried to get the blood to go away.

Where Loki touches, fresh skin grows over, spreading like water spilled across a tabletop. There goes all his hard work. They're going to be all bloody again.

Then, despite their mother's reach for them, Loki clasps the hands, fingers trailing on the inside of the wrist. The grip is tight, and seems like it should hurt. Mild pity swirls through him for the recipient of that death clench.

His mother's fingers ghost over his head, maybe touching something.

Thor just pins his gaze forward. Sleep sounds good. But he has blood. That doesn't make sense. Frigga coughed blood into her palm. He has to clean that off.

_No._

No, no, no.

A keening noise escapes him. Loki grips the hands harder.

_No—_

000o000

The pain registers first, not the death clench. It shoots up through his leg, lingering in his hip and making his entire ribcage contract. It's not sharp, it's not burning, it's _cold._ Sharp and bitter, like ice groaning to support weight. He can barely flex his toes inside his boots, let alone attempt to move his knee.

A gasping, rigid inhale is what he calls breathing.

_Norns, he's dying._

"...shh," his mother's quiet voice soothes. "Shh. You're alright, just breathe through it."

She's sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder. It's nice. His brain feels like it's slowly leaking back into his skull. He wishes his family was more contact happy. Maybe that's why he's always trying to do it first. Physical affection. _Contact happy?_

Then he registers the pain in his hands. The grip isn't really tight, but the nails digging into the underside of his wrists are. Pinching skin, and it's _painful._ He grimaces, attempting to pull his hands back a little to alleviate it.

"Thor?" He hasn't heard his brother sound afraid like that in a long time.

That's enough incentive for him to open his eyes again, and he does so, blinking his sibling into shape. Loki is kneeling in front of him, hands still wrapped around Thor's. There isn't a mark on him from where he burned and scraped the skin off his hands, and it almost feels like there should be. Proof that what happened was _real._

But disgust quickly follows. Followed by horror.

_What did he do!?_

"I…" he fumbles with his tongue, but it's deadweight in his mouth. The single word seems to fill Loki with unimaginable relief, because his shoulders slump and his grip loosens a little, but doesn't let go. Loki's hands are cold.

His mother releases a breath beside him, tracing a hand through his hair. "It's alright."

"I," he gets out.

_No._

He blinks several times, but nothing seems to really _register._ Hands clench his.

"Thor," a different voice. He looks up, and sees his father standing there. His expression is closed off, but there's something different about the way he's standing. He takes several steps forward, closer, but so far away. He reaches a hand out, and rests it on his forearm. The skin is rough, but warm.

So much contact, like they think if they grip him hard enough, it will keep him here.

Thor feels the bizarre urge to laugh. He chokes on a hiccuped sound. "I," he says.

All he can say. All he's said. _I, I, I._

_No._

_I burned my hands off. I saw what you hid, Mother. I, I, I._

He starts to laugh, and tears stream down his face. The movement jars his leg, and the tears become ones of pain. Loki grips harder, desperate. It's funny in a sickening way. Three of the most powerful beings in existence, and none of them can do a thing to help him.

"You're sick, Mother," Thor gasps out. "Sick, sick, sick."

His mother's grip tightens, and Loki looks up at her, eyes widening with dawning comprehension. "Frigga—" he starts, but his voice chokes off, horrified.

"What is he talking about?" Odin's voice...Thor can't figure out what it sounds like. Another laugh escapes him.

"I'm fine," Frigga dismisses, "it's just a cough."

" _Just a cough?"_ Odin sounds angry, but it's worried anger. The type where it's nearly hysteric. Pained. "That's how all of this starts! Why would you not say anything!?"

"Sick, sick, sick," Thor chants under his breath, "I saw the blood. Gotta...gotta wash it off."

Loki grips his wrists, his knuckles white, nails pinching in.

Odin is reaching to cup his mother's face, his expression is wide-eyed and opened. The sight makes his stomach roll. Thor can't deal with this. His chest is heavy. Heart fluttering. There's something wrong with him. He needs...

"Please put me to sleep." Thor murmurs, "Please." His throat hurts. " _Please, please, please…"_

He doesn't think his parents hear him. That's okay.

He doesn't want them to know how much of a coward he is for wanting an out. _Something doesn't..._

_"Please..."_

One of Loki's hands releases his hand to reach up and wave in front of his face with a complicated finger movement. He feels the slight tug of sedir, an ache in the back of his skull, then consciousness slips away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know about you guys, but my panic attacks are intense dissociative episodes. It just kinda struck me as something that Thor would react with. Can't punch a sickness. 
> 
> Next chapter: August-ish.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh. I have so many blisters on my feet right now and I totally damaged my ring finger on my left hand (me and my fingers have a very testy relationship.) I think my body is trying to give out. XD
> 
> Thank you guys, though! I'm so glad that you're enjoying the story. May I offer you another chapter of pain?
> 
> Warnings: Self harm, anxiety.

* * *

"We can do something." Sif says, not bothering to stop to look at him, hands wringing. Her bare feet trek back and forth across the stone, slipping over a smooth rug before returning to the stone. It patters softly, like rain. A sound to listen to beyond his heartbeat.

Loki watches her go back and forth once more before lifting his head a little. He feels defeated. He wants to laugh. "What? Choose the flowers for her funeral?" he asks. His tone is bitter, and he doesn't care.

Maybe he should. It might help this awful emptiness that's snuggled up inside his stomach.

Fandral makes a noise in the back of his throat, like he wants to agree or laugh, but knows it's not appropriate. Sif gives him a look, and Fandral lifts up his hands in surrender. "What? It's not like he doesn't have a point, my lady. No one has walked away from this. Two of Vanaheim's most powerful elder sedir users have given up the ghost."

Loki's throat tightens. He closes his eyes sharply and breathes in. The image of Frigga sitting on the cot while Kia tended to her is branded on the inside of his eyelids. She'd coughed up blood and reacted like it was just a normal fact of life. _How long,_ he'd wanted to demand, rattling her shoulders, _how long did you know?_

For all that he's studied this outbreak, he didn't realize how quickly it spread.

 _Who's next?_ His mind frantically flails, _who, who, who?_

"Perhaps it would not be best to bring that up now." Hogun offers. Loki can feel the weight of his stare on his face. He doesn't want to look up to meet it. He just wants to curl into a small ball on this hard floor and let it swallow him.

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Fandral says.

He's not fragile. He doesn't need them to treat him that way. (He does, and he hates it.)

Loki still doesn't lift his pinned gaze, letting it rest somewhere to the left of the bedpost hidden beneath the dull orange blanket of Thor's bedspread. His brother is still resting soundly on top, face pinched and stressed, looking he's decades older than he truly is. It's strange. A year ago, Loki would've said that his brother was always carefree and indifferent to just about everything.

Now…

Thor burned off the skin of his hands, and Loki doesn't even know _why._ A marvelous job he's been doing helping.

They're supposed to be close. Loki's never felt more distant from him. And it hurts, somewhere deep inside, to realize how far the chasm between them is. They aren't even the same people anymore. Just two strangers pretending to be brothers.

"I'm serious," Sif continues, "we _can_ do something. I refuse to just sit here and let the Queen die."

"Do you think any of use would let her?" Volstagg asks softly. It's the first words he's spoken beyond a heartfelt " _not her"_ when Loki explained the situation to them. Loki lifts his heavy eyes to look up at the man.

Hogun is seated on the simple desk shoved against one wall beneath a large mirror, and Volstagg has taken the chair. Mirrors are everywhere in this palace. It's how Loki thinks the Vanir pretend they have open space. The air tastes stale here.

Sif is pacing. Fandral is leaning against the back of one of the couches, arms folded across his chest and brow pinched. Loki, like a child, collapsed against the end of Thor's bed and pulled his legs up to his chest some five minutes ago. He doesn't think he could get up if he tried.

It's easier not looking at his sibling. At least this way he can claim that he's close.

Thor's empty eyes yesterday…

Norns, Loki's bones feel heavy. His body aches with residual anxiety. He clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out stiffly. His mother is dying. His father likely wont leave her bedside until she passes. His family is falling apart, and all he can do is stand and watch it happen.

He doesn't know what to do.

"No. Of course not." Sif snaps, running a hand through her hair. It's something Thor does. Loki wonders who accumulated it from who. "But you don't understand. I'm not suggesting that we _synthesize_ a cure. I'm not a witch. My understanding of sedir is rudimentary at it's best...But I do know how to track people."

_What?_

"What on the Nine does that have to do with anything?" Fandral asks, flicking his hands out. "We're talking about their _mother,_ Sif, not some Norn's cursed hunting trip!"

"I…" Sif's steps falter. She looks like she's chewing on her lip to brace herself against something. "I _know_ that. I'm not an idiot, Fandral. I simply mean...I mean that…that we..."

"...we can find the sorcerer of the wood." Hogun finishes, grim.

Loki clenches. He thinks he's going to be sick. _Oh, Norns. Why would you…?_

Sif gives a slight nod, folding her arms across her chest tightly. One thumb rubs absently at her arm.

The sorcerer, who's in the Blodig Skog. Who's in the place that they're warded against. That his father protested against them going to, but everyone knew was only a matter of time. It's a necessity. Not a request.

If...if they can somehow find the sorcerer before Frigga gets worse...could they ease the symptoms, or banish them all together? If they could find him, would it be possible to save her? If he sits here and does nothing, she's facing certain death. No one has recovered from this disease, and without those sigils, no one will.

His uncle was right. This isn't something they can run from.

He has to...has to…

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Volstagg curses, getting to his feet. His face has lost all color, and there's a wild franticness in the way he's holding himself. "Norns, woman!" he exclaims, "What would _possess_ you to think of returning to that place! We didn't come here to relive that torture, we came here to _help!"_

Sif's tempter is equally hot. "And what good have we done? Tell me, Volstagg. We've stood around and tended to sick fevers and watched the helpless die. By remaining here, _we are prolonging their suffering."_

Norns, Loki can't imagine what being around the ill for so long would have been like. He stayed behind closed doors with the medical professionals and sedir wielders, trying to come up with a solution and looking at test results. Hiding behind books, as he's oft to do.

"And us losing our minds is going to help them?" Volstagg counters, still pale. He doesn't look angry, he looks like he's about to be sick. "We barely made it out the first time, and I won't make the jump at saying any of us really left it behind. I'm no fool."

Sif's jaw bunches.

"We don't even have a map," Fandral says. His posture is leaning towards Sif, but his mouth is a tight line. Sif casts angry eyes on him. "I'm not saying that we don't do this," Fandral adds, though it's obvious he wants to, "I'm just...think about this logistically. We don't have a map, we don't have supplies, and we don't know the first thing about how to track this...wizard down in the first place. If he even exists."

He does. He can't _not._ Loki saw the sigils carved into Thor's essence. Someone did that, and it wasn't the Siren. She didn't care.

"We'll figure it out!" Sif exclaims. She's gone still. Her hands are shaking softly, underneath where she's hid them, but it's causing her entire arm to tremble. "I won't just sit here and wait!"

"Sif," Hogun's voice is patient, eyes far away. "Fandral is right. Even if we all agreed to do this, we'd need the means. The only reason we survived last is because of the Siren."

Loki feels nausea tighten a knot in his throat. He feels cold, like life has been drained from him. It's a truth that all of them have known for a long, long time. Not one they wanted to address. The reason, Loki thinks, that they stopped fighting so hard at the end. The Siren provided for them, and in a sick, twisted way, they grew grateful for that.

They were losing themselves to her, because she gave them basic necessity. Shelter, food, warmth. If she'd just left them out there to die, they would have died. But she didn't, and though she ended their lives, she saved them, too.

The silence lingers between them as they drink that knowledge, as sour and bitter as it is.

Sif swears under her breath.

Loki feels like following, but his tongue feels heavy and laden in his mouth. Given this, it surprises everyone including him when the soft words fall out of him. "I don't owe my life to her,"

He refuses to. He won't. Can't.

Four pairs of eyes land on him. Loki doesn't bother to come to attention. Just rubs very softly at his left thumb between two fingers. He releases a shuddering, pained breath. His lungs don't feel large enough for his body, twisted and pulled taut inside of him. He meets their eyes, because he has to, not because he wants to.

"There's no one else to do this." He says. His tone is flat. Lifeless. _Only appropriate,_ a bitter part of him murmurs. "It's us or Tjan. His men died in Asgard a year ago, if you'll recall." A fact that he learned second hand. No one told him. "And I don't know about you, but I don't trust him to find his own feet, let alone a sorcerer whose hidden so well inside the wood his existence became a myth and bedtime story."

It makes him wonder, far and distant, how long the Weeping Siren was also there before she revealed herself. Then he thinks he doesn't care. _Let her rot, whether in the past or present._

The Warriors and Sif are quiet for a long moment.

None of them _want_ to do this.

But has it ever been a _choice?_

Hogun sighs softly, looking down at his hands, then his socks. And Loki remembers the conversation on a rooftop what feels like a lifetime ago. "Loki can track the sorcerer with his sedir...and I'll talk with my father about borrowing the king's map." He says.

Almost as one, they slump. With this choice comes commitment.

Volstagg sighs. "So it will be,"

"So it will be," Loki murmurs to himself.

Sif opens her eyes, expression strained. "We'll collect supplies from the palace. Everyone get some sleep. We'll leave tomorrow morning."

000o000

When the Warriors and Sif have left, Loki doesn't bother climbing onto his own mattress. Thor can whine about it all he wants later, about how it's not manly and they're not children anymore, but he doesn't care. He climbs onto the mattress beside his older brother and lays there, staring at nothing.

The night isn't young, nor has it passed to old age yet. Somewhere in the middle.

Helplessness has become a familiar feeling as of late. He hates it all the same.

Loki flips to his back, staring up. The ceiling is dull and gray, offering little entertainment. There's a few cracks, but the creases of the stones fit together so seamlessly he doesn't think he could get a fingernail wedged between them. It's hard to tell where one begins and another ends.

Minutes pass. Then an hour.

Thor breathes beside him, his peace an illusion. He was screaming yesterday; bloody, raw hands burned to muscle, but Loki could tell he didn't feel the pain. _These aren't my hands,_ he'd said. Then later, more panicked, begging, p _lease put me to sleep._

 _Please let me die,_ is what Loki thought in return.

His eyes burn. He rubs at them, then pushes against them, digging his palms into his skull. It isn't enough, it never is. His stomach is bunching, his chest aches with the pressure. There's too much inside him, and he's going to choke. _Make it stop. I can't breathe._

 _I can't do this,_ he thinks frantically, then, _I won't do this._

He can't go crawling back to the hell he barely escaped from. He can't pretend that they'll have magically procured answers in the morning on how best to do this. That they'll even get explicit permission, and won't just drop off the face of the planet. (If they even ask in the first place.) His father was so against it when they suggested it the first time.

But that was before Frigga.

Before Thor's panic.

Loki thinks if he asked, his father would say yes. And that would break him. _Would it,_ a soft voice asks, _would it_ really? _You already know that you're expendable. At least if you left, he'd still have the family that matters to him. His wife, and his golden boy. You're just the mad one. The shadow._

Loki presses harder against his eyes, breathing out stiffly. Shadows are only important when the sun is shining.

Thor inhales and exhales beside him. The spell wore off a long time ago. Whatever sleep he's in now is of his own violation. Loki wishes he could reach over and shake him, ask his opinion. Or his help. None of them brought up bringing Thor, and Loki doesn't know if they will— _these aren't my hands—_ how can they? His brother has suffered enough.

And he still has to return. He doesn't...doesn't... _doesn't—_

_You're a coward._

He is.

 _The Siren is dead, and you linger here like she's going to crawl out of the dark and latch onto your soul. Pathetic. You know, even if she did drag you off, would anyone look? Would anyone_ want _to? You haven't given them any good reason as of the late. Loki and his madness._

Stop. Stop, he can't, he—

Loki rolls. His chest is compressed. Every breath feels like he's sucking oxygen from water.

 _At least you know that the Siren did love you, in her own way. You only keep things you want, and at least she_ wanted _you. She left the golden child and took the shadow._

Loki doesn't owe her anything. She didn't do anything for him. She broke him.

 _Even if that's true, you_ miss _her._

An awful, grasping panic settles inside him. He sits up. Energy is screaming through him. He feels like he's at the epicenter of an explosion, and if he doesn't _move,_ he's going to be hit. He scrambles off the mattress, breathing heavily, but not enough. He needs his thoughts to quiet. Needs his head to silence. Stop thinking, stop, thinking, stop thinking, stop—

_She could have cut off your arm, and you'd have said thank you._

Stop, stop, stop—

 _And now you don't even notice that anyone else is suffering. Thor is obviously struggling, and what have you been doing?_ Nothing _. You just sat there and pretended you both weren't drowning, because that's_ easier, _and you've always loved the easy way out._

Loki gasps, hand fisted over his sternum. His heart is fluttering around his ribs, pounding on the cage it's entrapped on. He thinks he's dying, and the only thing he feels is a deep sense of relief.

 _Thor is your brother. Your best friend. When was the last time you honestly asked him how_ he _was? When was the last time that you thought of someone other than yourself?_

His eyes are completely dry. He's not crying. He's still and motionless. And he needs to—has to— _stop thinking!_

 _At least her love was authentic. Everyone around you feels fake. You're fake. Your fake parents, your fake brother, your fake friends. They said they were glad to have_ really _met you, whatever that means, and you know what you said in return?_

Sharp. He needs something sharp. Sharp brings blood and blood— _Stop thinking._

 _Absolutely nothing. You just smiled weakly. You couldn't even tell them that you thought it was a lie. You just sat there in silence while they_ laughed, _and now they want to go back to the place you all died and—_

The first cut is deep. A thick, heavy slice across his forearm. Blood wells, pooling, red, and thick. The pain is a shock, but a familiar one. Loki chokes on air, dragging the blade up, but forcing it to be more shallow. He scrapes through older cuts, older scars. Older silences.

_You—_

The pain _aches._

The energy in his chest is still pumping. Demanding a release and a penance.

He cuts once, twice, again, again, again, again…

His thoughts are completely silent.

000o000

" _Loki Fjörgynn Vé!"_

Loki closes his eyes and represses a shudder, ducking his head close to Moa's side for a moment to gather himself. He can't remember the last time someone shouted his full name. It's a common belief on Asgard that to scream someone's full name is to condemn them to possession, not that Loki's found any evidence of it.

Sif looks up from where she's re-checking through a satchel and their eyes catch.

She looks as apologetic as she does frustrated.

Both of them know that voice.

Loki raises up to his full height and steps around Moa, leaving a hand against her muzzle in a stupid attempt at comfort. She shuffles against him, but turns her head to look, obviously interested. _Traitor._

Thor stalks towards him from the other side of the barn, looking every inch their father's son. His eyes are furious and crackling, his aura thick and oppressive. Loki tastes ozone, and can feel the electricity bunching in the air.

Trailing behind his sibling is his Volstagg, who has the decency to look slightly guilty. Not enough. Loki can tell that it wasn't his brother that approached Volstagg, but the other way around.

Strangely, it's not Thor's presence that makes his body tense up. It's who's following after. _No. On the Norn's—what are the chances?_ Standing behind Thor is the captain of his guard, Ullr, and a handful of his soldiers he was training.

Hyn's expression is perfectly blank when Loki catches his eye, but looks strangely smug as well. The four around him are staring with a mix between apprehension and anger. Loki can see the blond Sif inflicted violence upon leaning on one leg awkwardly. They're staring. Wary, confused, but waiting, bated. Like this is all just a show specifically for them.

Loki grits his teeth, and wishes, not for the first time, that his family's drama wasn't a spectacle to be enjoyed. Some days—often—he hates his title, and all the weight that comes around it.

"Yes, brother?" Loki asks.

At least, a part of him recognizes dully, Thor seems coherent. He's angry which means he isn't despairing, which means that he won't go burning his hands beneath the spray. Which...it isn't _good,_ but it's all he could have asked for when he left his sibling this morning. He didn't intend to see him until he and the Warriors had returned.

Thor's eyes flash. He stops about a foot in front of Loki, to which he takes a half step back. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. What on Helheim are you _thinking!?"_

"Thor," Fandral says, seeming to appear beside the blond. He doesn't touch him. "Breathe, my friend. It's not like we're laying siege to Jotunheim."

"No," Thor rears on the swordsman, "instead, you're going to run off into a place that's _cursed,_ actively killing people, and drove you all mad!"

Loki flinches back from that. He feels like he's been slapped. For all the gossip has slipped around the palace, Loki's never heard _Thor_ accuse him of insanity. Not to his face. Not like this—like it's a weapon to be swung at a moment's notice.

Loki's jaw grits. His eyes slide to Hyn and his group of idiots. Moa shifts restlessly.

Sif bristles, stepping up beside him. "Look. Your accusations aren't going to help you make your point. We're leaving once Hogun returns from his father, and unless you're going to strap us down, there's little you can do to stop it."

"Maybe I _should_ if you think this wise!"

"It's a _forest,_ Thor. Not a dragon." Loki says softly. He feels old, and very tired. "We'll be back in a week, maybe a fortnight."

If they're being hopeful. The Blodig Skog is massive, and it's expanding. They could circle it several dozen times and still miss the sorcerer. If he's even in the wood in the first place. That's something they've all privately tried not to consider. If he's left...they can't search an entire planet in a few days.

"And I'm just supposed to sit here?" Thor scoffs in disbelief.

"That was the plan, yes."

" _Loki!"_

"What do you want me to say!?" Loki exclaims, stepping closer. "That I'm sorry? That we won't go? Because I wont."

"That's not—"

"You demand an answer, and you're wasting our time. Our mother is dying. Vanir are dying. We don't have time to sit here and trade a petty argument." Loki seethes. His jaw aches. He feels like a coiled snake, ready to snap out and bite anyone who tries to soothe him. _Snake Prince. How fitting._

Thor's eyes squint. This anger is familiar. He hasn't seen Thor look so _alive_ in a very long time.

"You're running off on some stupid self-sacrificing quest when our father explicitly ordered us not to. He said it wasn't necessary."

"Our father doesn't know everything."

"And you do?" Thor counters. His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but his anger wont let him. Loki has no such restraints. His lips split into something bitter and he holds it, leaning in, like a snake bite.

"At least I'm actually willing to go."

Thor flinches back, obviously stung. Regret settles in his stomach, but it's fleeting. Anything to get Thor _away_ from here. Away means safe. Away means that he won't interfere. Away means that they won't fight like it's the only thing they know how to do anymore.

"I'm not a coward." Thor growls in disagreement.

"No?"

"Loki," Sif says, very softly behind him. A warning. But Loki's never been very good at _not_ sticking his neck out where he shouldn't.

"I'm just not being crass."

"What on the Nine is _idiotic_ about finding the _one_ source of help we know of!?" Loki protests, truly, and honestly confused, "Tell me, brother, _honestly!_ What do you have so against this!? Aren't you usually for the self-sacrificing plans, it's not like we're doing blood rituals! We're not—"

Thor grabs his shoulders, shaking him roughly once. His grip is iron. " _I CAN'T LOSE YOU!"_

Loki's eyes flick up to his face, and his mouth snaps shut. Thor's eyes are red and wet. Haunted. His face is pale, and it's obvious that despite the hours of sleep he managed, he could still lay down for another fifteen. He looks more like an exhausted, lost man than he does a prince. Or Loki's sibling. _W_ _e are strangers,_ he realizes. _Perhaps we've always been._

This isn't anger. Not all of it. It's _panic_.

"I can't…" Thor inhales, obviously trying to gather himself. He doesn't let go, and Loki doesn't struggle. He's too shocked by the outburst to move. "I won't do that again. I can't. You don't know how long I spent thinking you were dead. You don't know how long I spent thinking about how to tell our parents I _failed_ you. You mean too much to me. If I mean anything to you, please, _please_ don't do this."

Loki doesn't know how to answer. He works his tongue behind his teeth, thinking, spinning, spiraling. His fingers twitch. He can't meet his sibling's eyes.

"Thor," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Brother, we don't get that choice."

Thor closes his eyes, shaking his head twice, lips pinched. Gathering himself. " _Why_?"

Because fate is a cruel mistress, with little regard to personal opinion or feelings? He doesn't know. He wishes he did. Loki flexes his fingers, pulling his nails away from the inside of his palms. He keeps his answer simple, "We need those sigils."

And Loki, as much as he doesn't want to think about it, is honestly the only one who can't refuse to go. He's the only warded seidr wielder. The only one who _can_ learn how to do the sigils firsthand, if they don't manage to bring the sorcerer back with them.

Thor releases a sharp exhale through his teeth, then let's go of Loki's arms and moves down the stable. Past Sif, who doesn't try to stop him, only watching with something aching on her face. Thor stalks down the stable, and Loki turns, but does nothing else. His lips part, but he can't form the question.

Thor stops in front of his stallion's stall.

Loki's stomach sinks in realization, but he doesn't try to fight. It's not a battle he'd win.

"What are you doing?" It isn't him, or Fandral, or Sif. It's Captain Ullr, whose moved half a step closer.

Thor opens the gate and rests a hand on the horse's muzzle, gently guiding him into the open space. "My sibling and my companions are fools," Thor mutters in question.

"And therefore...?" Captain Ullr questions.

"I suppose we must ask ourselves this: who is truly the fool? The fool, or the man who follows him?" Thor answers cryptically and starts for the tack.

Captain Ullr sighs longsufferingly.

"You're _going_?" Volstagg sounds disappointed, and Loki casts him a side-long look. To anyone else, the question would be innocent, a concern for Thor's safety. Loki knows better. Volstagg approached his brother in the hopes that Thor would stop them. Trying to fight departure is something Loki wants to grind his heels down into. But he knows that it won't do anything.

If Volstagg truly wanted success in that endeavor, he should have talked with Odin.

"Do I have a choice?" Thor asks, back to them. "You aren't going to stop, and I'm not letting you go alone. Looks like we're stuck together."

"Your Highness," Captain Ullr's voice is more patient than Loki was expecting. "I don't think this is a wise decision. This forest is dangerous. It's not something you can kill. Not something that can be fought. You stepped in for what was meant to be a few days, and we nearly lost all of you. What makes you—any of you—certain this trip will be any different?"

"They aren't, Captain. And I don't suspect that it will be."

Loki twists around, startled, and looks at the other entrance of the stable. Governor Tusin stands there, hand wrapped around the hilt of a blade strapped to his waist, looking ready to kill something. Hogun is beside him, expression pinched in a rare display of visible frustration. When did they get here? How long were they standing there?

Loki bites on the inside of his cheek. He feels exposed. He wishes more of their arguments took place behind closed doors, where their only witness is each other.

Fandral recovers himself first. He smooths the front of his shirt, as if trying to brush away dirt. "Your confidence astounds me, Governor."

Governor Tusin steps forward and scoffs, "Don't backtalk me, boy. Your _overconfidence_ will get you all killed out there."

Overconfidence. Loki could laugh. That's what this is, certainly. All of them fumbling and trying not to cry tears of sheer frustration. His hands are shaking. He's not breathing deeply enough. The world feels gray.

"Otōsan," Hogun sighs, flicking his gaze up.

"No." Governor Tusin lifts a finger towards his son's face. " _You_ have spoken plenty, son. If you intend to stay on the remaining good graces of mine that you have, you _will keep silent."_

Hogun shoots his father a heated stare, but presses his lips together pointedly. His jaw bunches, and his eyes flick away.

Loki rubs at his palm with his thumb, agitated.

Governor Tusin releases a skittering breath. His face has aged. There's worry there, and a deep seated dread. It hardly boosts Loki's already low outlook on this. The governor steps forward and pulls something from his cloak, holding it out to them. Loki realizes then that the man is hardly dressed formally. He's in a light tunic with loose pants. If the ground wasn't damp with a light rainfall last night, Loki wonders if he'd even have bothered to put on shoes.

Hogun must've dragged him from bed to discuss this. Loki feels a mild discomfort at that fact. It's not something he would dare to do with his own father.

The item is a rolled up sheet of paper. The map of the Blodig Skog. Loki doesn't want to touch it. The realization is as deep rooted as it is startling. He'd rather chop off and eat his own foot than lay a finger on the paper. It's not the map that they used to get out of the tunnels—that one is sitting safely in his father's office again—but it doesn't really matter.

Neither Sif nor Fandral make a move to handle the parchment.

Apparently sensing their apprehension, Volstagg steps forward and takes the proffered item. His fingers barely touch it enough to hold it, and he handles it like it's a dead, bloody animal.

Governor Tusin scoffs lightly as he watches them.

Somewhere behind them, Thor drops something and curses under his breath.

"You come back," Governor Tusin says, his tone as commanding as it is apprehensive. "Vanaheim can't stand another political battle right now. Not like last time." Last time? _What_ last time? "And beyond that, I'd rather not have the deaths of King Odin's children on my head. Nor Asgardian noblemen's children. Vanaheim is already blamed for your madness. We'd go to open war if you don't return. Bare that in mind, would you?"

"We're not going to _die."_ Sif says, shaking her head. "Does no one have faith in us?"

"You've _told_ no one of your excursions. How could they?" The governor counters. "And it's not like you have a good track record. Take the map, but don't be crass about this."

Loki forces his mouth to work. "Thank you, governor." The words feel flat and false. He thinks they are.

Hogun's father smiles thinly. He looks to his son, and rests a hand on his shoulder for a long, weighted moment. There's something shadowed in his face when their eyes meet, and Loki sees the hard exterior of politician slip away from him for a moment. It's the expression that Loki's seen fathers give their sons before they go to war. Many of which don't return.

This feels like a death omen.

"You've grown to be a fine man," Governor Tusin says. "Do your family proud."

"I will," Hogun promises. His expression is soft.

The older man nods once to himself, then pulls his arm back with what looks like effort. He meets Loki's gaze and nods again, then turns and strides from the stable, cloak billowing behind him. Loki watches him go until he can't anymore.

Volstagg tucks the map inside his saddlebag.

Then they stand there for a moment, breathing. The only sound is the light rainfall outside, their breath, and Thor moving in the background. They've beat all the servants here. Sunlight hasn't even made an appearance yet.

An indiscernible amount of time later, Thor steps up beside him, reins gathered in his left hand. "When do we leave?" he asks.

"We were just waiting for Hogun," Sif answers as if coming from a daze, her gaze sliding to the man.

They stand still. Taut. Breathless. Pained.

 _I don't want to do this,_ Loki thinks softly. He digs his nails inside his palms.

"I'm going to have to tell your father where you went if he asks," Captain Ullr warns. Loki would be surprised by his lack of resistance, but he also knows that the captain has been in charge of Thor since their childhood. He knows his brother a little too well than to fight. _He might even know him better than I do,_ Loki realizes, and feels a rush of bitter jealousy. "I cannot keep the truth from the king."

"I didn't expect you to," Thor admits. His face has drained of color. Loki wonders if any of them _don't_ look a stiff breeze from passing out.

"Allfathers help you when he learns," Captain Ullr murmurs, "I'll be lucky to keep my head."

"This is a terrible idea." Hyn protests, and several of his fellow soldiers nod along with him. "You're going to get yourselves all killed. What good will you do Asgard dead?"

 _Ha._ They are Odin's sole heirs, that's ture. Without them, there will be conflict in a battle for the throne. But it's not like that fact has ever really stopped them before.

"Better than we'll do it standing here." Thor counters.

"Your brother is insane, my prince, there's not much good he does period." Another man says. Loki's teeth clench together, and he looks away, face hot. He bites on the inside of his cheek. _Talking does nothing,_ he reminds himself, _and violence isn't a long-term solution._ Hyn stomps on the man's foot and he grunts.

Fandral makes a move forward, but Thor lifts up a hand to stop him. The movements are small, but present. Thor slips a step forward, then grabs the young man by the front of his shirt, hauling him up. His brother is tall, but it strikes Loki then how much he towers. "My brother is not crazy," Thor says. _You just said otherwise,_ Loki wants to say. "I'd have you remember that. Speak such insults again, and you'll find yourself in a world of hurt."

"Thor," Loki murmurs. He feels tired. He didn't sleep last night.

His brother drops the man, who's staring at him wide-eyed.

"Sorry, my lord," Hyn says smoothly. His eyes are burning embers when they flick to Loki, "it won't happen again."

Of course. How many times has Loki heard that lie in his lifetime?

"I should hope not." Thor moves back to his stallion, and mounts him in one smooth motion. A lifetime of practice. Thor was riding before he could walk properly. His hands are clenched around the reins, and his posture is stiff. Loki wonders for a long second if they should swallow their pride and go see their mother. To say goodbye, if it comes to that.

But Loki doesn't want to face their father, and the thought of seeing Frigga lethargic like that, bloodied as she was, he just...he can't…

_You are a coward._

"Come on," Thor says, "we have a lot of ground to cover, and little time."

Loki brushes a hand against Moa's side. Whether to reassure himself or the mare, he's not certain. He grabs hold of the saddle and hauls himself onto her back. Last time, their journey was supposed to be a few days. This time, they're estimating a week. Loki's not optimistic.

 _How long,_ he quietly asks himself, _before the forest lets us go?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Late September, early October hopefully. ;)
> 
> On a slightly unrelated note, I just joined [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/galaxythreads) Come talk to me while I decide what to put in the stupid blog. XD


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support, guys! :) I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warnings: References to past abuse. As a heads up, I know I don't normally put strong language in my stories, but this chapter has some very mild language.

* * *

It should have been harder. To slip away from the palace, from their guards, the safety of the city, people. But it wasn't. It's almost laughably simple in retrospect, but that doesn't surprise him. They have too much experience to be sloppy about this. Fear makes him want to stop, even if logic dictates he has to go on.

The journey from the edge of a crumbling, abandoned city into the Blodig Skog feels like a heavy, wet cloak is being draped around his shoulders. Thor doesn't know what to do with this energy, how to disperse or use it, so he simply lets it settle in his stomach, his fingers, his bones and lets it fester. Linger.

Once inside, there are no directions for them. Nothing to point them to the mythical wizard who's supposed to fix this for them. Help them save his mother, and the rest of the Vanir. They loiter for a moment at the forest's edge, uncertain, before turning north and continuing. His brother has some ideas for tracking the wizard, but without a sure lock onto his sedir signature, he only has a vague direction to go.

They don't stop until the sun has long since set again, and they're exhausted, tired, and hungry.

Camp is set up in silence, bedrolls laid out and food eaten like they're preparing for an execution.

Thor feels an obligation to break the silence, get them laughing, but all his words get stuck somewhere between his throat and his teeth and won't come out. So his humor falls flat inside his mouth, and remains there.

The fire crackles, the taste of smoke is almost numbing. The forest beyond them is utterly silent and still, like it's caught in suspended animation. Their breaths feel booming and echoing, the shifting of the horses like battle cries screeched into the open air.

How, he wonders privately, can something be so devoid of sound?

Night has settled firmly on them when Sif asks quietly, "Do you think we're going to die?" She's scraping a stick inside the fire, poking at ashes and hot coal to keep it alive. Thor looks up at her, and feels slightly nauseous at the question.

"No." Fandral says. He laid down some half an hour ago, but clearly hasn't fallen asleep yet. Thor doesn't know if any of them are going to rest tonight. Or until they leave. Exhaustion will demand it of them, but paranoia will keep them active. "There's nothing out here to kill us, Sif."

_Ha._

"The Weeping Siren isn't the only thing that populates this wood," Thor mutters, tossing some of the forest debris he was picking at into the flame. The fire accepts it with a hiss, sending up a plume of sparks and smoke. "There's plenty else to do the job for her."

Fandral snorts, then deadpans, "Encouraging."

 _Not meant to be,_ Thor wants to retort. He keeps his lips pressed together and scowls into the flame because it's easier to be angry than afraid. He breathes out stiffly, and sees Sif staring at him subtly. He catches her gaze, and she pulls her own away, returning her brown eyes to the flame.

"What about you? Do you think we will?" Thor asks. As soon as the words are out, he wishes that he hasn't said anything. He doesn't want to know her answer.

Sif's lips press together and she frowns.

Volstagg flicks an anxious stare up at him, clearly as unwilling to hear the response as he is. Thor clenches his hands and sweeps his gaze across the small clearing they've taken to calling camp for the night.

Fandral has turned on his side to face them, giving up on the pretense of sleep. Hogan is balancing a lamp on his knee, eyes fixed on the map of the Blodig Skog that Loki has been staring at for the better part of two hours, trying to work some sort of sedir onto it or maybe scribble on top of it. Thor's not entirely sure; he's spent most of that time trying to pretend that they're not here, of which has included ignoring his sibling.

Loki's wound so tight it's impossible to ignore the tension. The reminder. At least with the Warriors, he can dissimulate their silence as one of contemplation; as if they're working out a rather difficult situation in a quest, rather than sitting here.

_Here._

"I don't know," Sif says at length, drawing his attention back to the shieldmaiden. She releases her lower lip and glances towards Hogan and Loki. Her shoulders tighten. Neither his sibling or the Vanir give the slightest indication that they're hearing anything from the conversation. Some part of him is relieved, even as a surge of annoyance rushes through him.

How nice it would be to simply engross himself so thoroughly into something that he could forget.

Sif scrapes her stick through the flame. A flurry of sparks shoots up towards the sky, swallowed into the black night. There's no moonlight, or stars, instead the sky is thick with overcast, which doesn't surprise Thor. Vanaheim is nothing if not wet.

"I hope not," Sif adds softly.

"We won't." Thor says, not to offer her comfort, but because he needs to hear it. His voice is loud, firm, confident. It sounds nothing like what he's become used to over the last months. "We're not going to die. None of us are going to die."

Five pairs of eyes rise to look at him. He swallows thickly under their scrutiny, but plasters something he hopes looks somewhat optimistic to his face. "We're the elite of Asgard. We'll find this wizard and return to Bo-An. You'll see."

Loki's gaze pulls away first, returning to the map with what looks like some reluctance. Thor turns his gaze to the fire so he doesn't have to watch everyone else lose faith in his words. No one has an answer for him.

Thor doesn't even have an answer for himself.

000o000

It's somewhere mid afternoon the next day, as they're watering the horses, that Loki approaches him. None of them slept much, and it shows in their faces. Thor feels stretched and weirdly achy, like his limbs needed to be horizontal for longer. Not to sleep, but just remain inactive.

The Warriors are gathered together in a small group off to the left of him, doing a weapons and supplies check. He didn't feel like joining, and doesn't know if Loki did. He hasn't spoken to his brother since their argument in the Vanir's royal stables yesterday. Loki's face is impassive. Thor feels his tense.

His brother is gripping the map in one hand. It's rolled like an innocent—albeit long—piece of parchment. "The sigils that the sorcerer cast on you, I need to study them."

Thor rests a hand on his stallion's neck. Victory's head shifts somewhat in acknowledgment, long black mane dripping into the river as he does so. "Why?"

"I've had little success with my other theories. The sigils are the only known source of this enchanter's magic. I might be able to draw an active signature from it." Loki pulls his lip against his teeth, "But I hold little hope. The spell I know of is only effective when an enchantment is being actively cast. It's why I couldn't track the Siren when we first encountered her."

Thor feels incredulous. The argument with their cousin feels like it happened decades ago, but the stinging humiliation he felt at the time lingered with him. Now he could care less about it, but then, it had felt so important. "But you _said—_ "

"I lied." Loki interrupts, voice smooth. "The only margin of success I had was when she took Idrissa. She was casting a spell to draw her in, it was a summoning."

Idrissa…? Thor squints for a moment before he remembers. She was one of the children. The second to last one taken by the creature. The one that Loki and Sif nearly rescued before losing her. He frowns, and Loki wets his lips, looking oddly uncomfortable.

"That...screeching, she was doing? It was a summoning?"

"Yes."

"Huh." Thor intones. He's parsed those days over in his head, looked over every detail, and yet, he feels like he still knows so little. It makes sense, in retrospect, he guesses. It would have been rather pointless to take a child then announce that you're doing so while you walk away.

Loki releases his lower lip, "It shouldn't hurt, or take more than a few minutes."

"Norns, brother. I didn't say no." Thor points out, slightly exasperated. Loki only stares, and Thor pats Victory's neck twice before sighing and saying in a tone more complacent, "What do you need me to do?"

Loki guides him away from the horses, directing him to sit on a large trunk of a fallen tree. It's splintered down the middle and blackened, like it caught fire. Much of the wood surrounding them does, almost as if someone fought a battle with only flame.

"Just sit still and remain quiet." Loki instructs. He unrolls the map, all but dropping it into his hands. "And hold this."

Thor catches it on either end, feeling disgusted by the feel of the paper. It's coarse, almost like thick fabric or a tapestry. The maps are old; perhaps even older than his father. Thor guesses it makes a sick sort of sense that they wouldn't be made from actual decaying, rotting paper.

The map is open to the location they're inside of. The small stream runs west for several more miles, growing thicker as it does, and the forest is dense and heavy surrounding it. What little notation on the map it is in Vanir, but what the Allspeak doesn't cover, his mother made sure he understood.

There's hills east of here, and a ravine. Thor's lips twist with a frown as he sees that. If it's the same one he remembers walking past, it's deep enough it was impossible to see the bottom. Thor wonders suddenly about the tunnels that the Warriors, his brother, and the children escaped through. He can't see any exits or entrances nearby. Maybe they're not close enough to the Weeping Siren's abode.

But those tunnels stretched for miles. How deep into the forest were they?

They had to travel south to leave the wood and get back to Ju, the small town that housed them for a few days before they could make it to the capital. Even with that knowledge, Thor has no idea where they are in relation to the place.

Loki's cold fingers touching his forehead brings him back from his wandering thoughts, and he inhales sharply at the feeling. Loki's eyes flicker half open as he twitches, but when Thor makes no indication he's in pain, he closes them again in concentration.

Norns, his hands are cold. They always are.

Loki's other hand moves out to rest his fingers very lightly on the map, off center by a few inches. Thor holds it steady, afraid now to drop it.

His brother's fingers start to glow softly, veins alighting beneath the skin. Thor feels a rush of ecstasy, adrenaline, and an overwhelming energy surge through him. The sensation makes his insides twist, and he bites on his tongue to keep himself from vomiting. His nose burns with the smell of pine and plant water.

Loki's face scrunches lightly. Eyelids drawing tighter together, lips thinning.

His limbs begin to ache from the pressure, fingers going numb. The need to release surges through him. He doesn't know how to make it stop, how to let it go. His mouth opens, but sound gets caught somewhere on his suddenly heavy tongue.

_Allfathers…stop, stop, stop…_

This isn't what magic feels like. Not normally. Not to him. Not from his family. It's usually a caress, not like...It feels like his chest and lungs are being forced beneath a slow moving harrow. His skin is burning.

His hands start to shake. Loki's breath catches, hitching, and it doesn't release. Thor realizes the tight lines on his face aren't from concentration, but pain. His hands are straining, like they want to pull away, but Loki won't let them.

He forces his tongue to move, scrape some noise out from his throat to beyond his teeth. "Lo…"

The map gives a sharp, electric jolt beneath his fingers, and some sort of warm buzz screeches through his limbs. Thor's sitting still one moment, the next he's being flung backwards, tossed as if he weighs nothing. He's not braced for the fall, and his elbows take the brunt of it, scraping along the rough foliage before his back, neck, and head smack into a tree.

He hears a sporadic _thump_ further off, and then there's a deep, guttural soundwave that ripples through the air. It's deafening, and Thor flinches in on himself as much as he's able, hands clamped over his ears, eyes pressed closed.

 _What did you do?_ Thor thinks frantically of his sibling. _What on Helheim did you—!?_

Air feels like it's been sucked from him, and it won't come back. He tries to gasp it in, or sip it, but the fiery pain in his lungs refuses to cooperate with him. The skin on his chest feels hot and sticky. He thinks he's bleeding, but he doesn't know from what.

Some amount of time later, maybe a few seconds, but it could be an hour, something touches his head, trying to peel his hands back. His eyes pull open and he jerks back from the contact. He sees Sif there, her eyes wild, gaze almost frantic as she says something to him. No, she's shouting. He can't hear her, and even when she manages to pull his fingers away, that doesn't change.

Volstagg is leaning over her, expression pinched and eyes blown wide. He looks like he just saw something awful, and he's struggling to comprehend it.

Thor's frantic, aching head manages to scrape something out. "Loki," he tries to say, but can't hear it, or anything else, come out. The syllables escape his throat, he feels that, but he can't hear anything beyond the ringing. Sif's eyes squint, and she shakes her head, eyes flicking back to his arms again and again.

Thor tastes the coppery wetness of blood in his throat.

His chest screams, and Thor opens his mouth and gasps in. Air is finally released down, and he coughs, hard and choking. Sif turns him on his side, trying to help him. His mouth feels funny, but he keeps breathing anyway, despite how numb and strangely fuzzy it is.

Sound starts to lazily make its way back, and Thor tries to sit up, pushing with his hands. The pain surprises him, and he nearly falls, but Sif's hands wrap around his back and help him upright. Thor looks around frantically for his brother.

 _Please be okay,_ his heart pleads, as his head screams at him to shake his younger brother roughly and scream _what did you do?!_

He spies his sibling hobbling towards him with Fandral trying to provide aid, but clearly his attempts have been rejected. His brother's nose is leaking blood, lips stained with it, and eyes red and raw. His face is ashen, contrasting starkly with his dark hair. There's faint wisps of smoke trailing from his hands.

He doesn't look like he should be upright, let alone moving.

Thor tries to get up and shorten the distance, but Sif pins him in place with embarrassing ease.

"Loki?" Thor croaks. His voice is hoarse. Thor thinks longingly of water.

"Norns," Loki gasps, all but collapsing to his knees in front of him. Fandral's hand shoots out to wrap around his bicep to make the fall a controlled descent. "I don't…" he pants, coughing. Blood sprinkles the forest floor from the force of it.

_Norns._

"What did you _do?!"_ Volstagg asks, almost hysterical. It's strange. He may be easily frightened, but Thor wouldn't have said he'd be one to lose himself. "You were supposed to be looking at the map, not—whatever this was."

"I needed," Loki says, and shakes his head as if trying to clear it. He groans, pressing dark red fingertips to his forehead. "I needed..."

Thor reaches out a shaky hand to touch his sibling. His heart is pumping wildly in his chest, panic and adrenaline washing into a strange lethargy. Loki's arm is real when he makes the contact. Thor grips his wrist, suddenly wanting— _needing—_ the contact.

Loki's eyes shudder.

"Loki?" Thor whispers.

His brother's lips thin. He looks like he's going to be sick. Blood slips down from his nose, across his lips, painting his chin an awful red. Thor wants to reach out and wipe it off, not wanting to see it, but when he lifts up his other hand to do so, he realizes that it's already covered in dirt, forest debris, and blood. His blood.

Hogan releases a loud profanity. Thor almost jumps at the sound of his voice. He didn't realize the Vanir wasn't in their cluttered group until his voice sounded from further away. All of them turn to look towards the man.

Thor's eyes widen. Where the fallen trunk used to be, and surrounding it—some fifty paces away—is a wide arc of destruction. It's not on fire, or tipped over, it _exploded._ Burst into fragments so small the air thick with a cloud of ash and dust. Wooden chips and bits of leafs are hot embers washed across the ground. In controversy to the flame, there's spikes of ice sticking out from almost everything, snow falling among the debris. The stream is frozen, and the horses on the other side of it, watching them with wariness, but unharmed, much to Thor's private relief.

Vaporized. Everything looks _vaporized._ The sort of scene he would expect to see after a battle. Not...whatever this was.

"What…?" croaks from him.

Hogan is kneeling in the center, where Thor and Loki were. Where the map should be. He's perched there with an obvious wariness, and already looking when Thor lifts his eyes to meet his stare. His gaze then slides to Thor's younger brother. Something akin to brief horror is openly visible on his face before vanishing.

Loki sees it. His entire body clenches up. Thor grips his wrist harder. _Don't let go._

There's a long few seconds of breathless silence. No one moves. No one says anything. Just staring.

Hogan abandons his perch, stalking towards them, intent to harm obvious in his gait. Before Thor can do much more than try to push up a little more, the Vanir warrior has grabbed Loki's shirt and hauled him upright. Out and away. Thor's fingers scramble, but he can't keep a good hold. Hogan's grip is rough, his expression muted, but fearful.

Thor feels sick.

"Hogan!" Sif exclaims.

"Whoa, mate—" Fandral starts.

"What did you do?" Hogan demands in a low whisper. When Loki doesn't provide anything beyond a frantic scrabbling to grab his wrist, Hogan shakes him hard enough that Loki releases a pained sound. " _WHAT DID YOU DO!?"_

"Hogan, please," Loki whispers.

"You _destroyed it!"_ Hogan isn't shouting anymore, but it's close. A confused sound is all that escapes his brother. "The map, you fool! It's been untouchable, unbreakable, for _centuries_ and you destroyed it. We have no way to leave the forest now. You just exploded our _only_ way out!"

Thor feels his face bleed of color. His gaze flicks back to the destruction. The ashes. Ice. His brother's back. _Oh, Norns…_

"I...what?" Loki sounds impossibly young. His voice is almost gasping; breathy and panicked. Out and in, rattling. "I…"

"Norns, how could you be so _reckless?"_ Hogan shoves Loki backwards. His brother stumbles, tripping over his feet and landing harshly beside him in the dirt, elbows ramming into the hard earth in a way that looks like it bends his wrists painfully. "Don't you care? The Vanir are depending on us. My father is depending on us. Your _mother—_ "

"Hogan!" Sif snaps, seeming to have regained control over her tongue first. She releases Thor to get to her feet. Thor barely keeps himself steady without her support. " _Stop it!"_

"Did you not see what he _did!?"_ Hogan demands, flustered. Furious. His stoic composure is lost. He gestures wildly towards the ashes. "We _need_ that map!"

"It was an _accident."_ Sif counters.

" _I don't care!"_ Hogan exclaims, stepping up to her. "Whether it was an accident or not doesn't matter! The map is _gone."_ Hogan casts a murderous glance towards Loki, who flinches back like he's been struck. "And now we're trapped. _Again._ "

"I thought—" Loki tries, tone sharp and wet all at once.

" _Did_ you?" Hogan bites.

Thor feels his lips part, but it's without purpose. Shock begins to leach away from him, crawling to whatever hole it emerged. Thor feels the pain, the burn and the bruises, but also anger. Loki didn't _know._ How can Hogan blame him for that!?

" _Enough,"_ Volstagg commands sharply, reaching out to grab Hogan's arm and pull him away. "You're high strung and saying things that you'll regret. Come with me. Clear your head." Hogan jerks against the grip and Loki flinches like he was expecting physical retaliation. His body is braced for it, Thor realizes, hung tight around his shoulders, but loose to absorb something. It doesn't seem to be a conscious decision, but a reflex.

And a stance Thor has seen more than once. Often. Over the span of years. But noticeably absent since they came back from the forest. Along….along with the worst of Loki's clumsiness. His brother may have two left feet the more comfortable he is, but not nearly as notably recently.

And.

That...

_Norns, how could he be such an idiot?_

He's not sure, exactly, what second it strikes him that the Warriors and Sif have hit his sibling before, he can't even remember standing, but he is acutely aware when his fist slams into Hogan's face.

Hogan staggers from the force, enough that Volstagg has to grab him to stop him from tumbling to the earth. "Thor!" the man exclaims, "What on the Nine—!?"

"You were going to hit him." Thor interrupts. His tone is cold, but heated; all at once. Hogan looks up at him through the hand pressed against his split cheek.

" _What?"_

There's a frantic undertone to his voice. One that causes Thor's fists to clench.

"Were you going to hit my brother?" He feels the collective air of the group catch, almost as if to replace a squirm of discomfort. It answers more than any words could have. Hogan's wide-eyed, pale face stares back at him, eyes flicking once toward where Loki is behind him. Thor shifts to block his view.

Breathless, tense silence swims between them, as if no one can think of anything to say. No excuses, no explanations. Words tumble off his lips, falling in a toneless accusation. "You have hit him. All of you."

He's not sure if this feeling is anger or disgust.

"Thor," Sif says weakly, her hand brushing his arm. Thor twists away from her grip, turning to face her. Her eyes are wet, face nearly white. The regret is obvious, but it doesn't feel like enough. "I'm sorry. We…"

"You would try to excuse your behavior?"

"That's not what I—"

Heat leaks into his tone, "How _could you?!_ He's my _brother._ You struck him. You _hurt_ him."

For an awful moment, he is grateful, _so grateful,_ that his back is to his sibling. He doesn't want to know what he's thinking.

Air is wrapping inside his throat, attempting to strangle him as it passes in and out. But he doesn't stop. He can't stop. His ability to control his tongue has been lost to him.

"I should have all of you executed." There's a flinch from all of them, and Thor feels something wide spread onto his face. A smile of despair. "Did you forget? It's not enough that I placed his life in your hands more than once. Not enough that he's my sibling. You disrespect his titles to place yourself above him. He's your _prince._ You swore when you took your oaths for the Einherjar that you would protect my family. Allfathers, you're his guard now. How on the Norns name could we trust you with such a task!?"

They hit him. They _hit_ him. These people he's trusted with his own life. That he's spent so much time with since adolescence. His entire world has rocked; that they would do that to his sibling. He knew about the ribbing, and the insults, and the words that dug in like a bite and infected as one. But that was retaliation on both ends. None were innocent of it.

But he didn't know that it was physical. The Warriors would have told him if Loki returned the favor. Before the Siren, they kept little private.

"Because we've changed!" Sif's voice is raised, but it doesn't seem so much out of anger as it is to get his attention. "We don't have an explanation or an excuse. _But we are trying to do better."_

On some level, he recognizes this. On another, he doesn't care. He didn't know them before. How can he trust their word _now?_ His mouth thins. Rage feels hot and cackling on his tongue. A whip to use and strike with. "Get out of my sight. Now. Before I do something I'll regret."

"Thor..." Fandral attempts weakly

"Did I _ask?"_

That stays any protest. The Warriors begin to move towards the horses, and that reminds him where they are. His teeth grits and he reaches out, snagging Sif's arm before she can get out of reach. Her body bows, as if braced for a strike. "Don't go too far." He pushes out. This isn't Asgard. If they wander off, it means they don't come back.

She nods, eyes shying away from him. Refusing to lift any higher than his collarbones. He lets her go, and she all but flees from his presence.

Thor breathes. In, out. Ragged things.

_I didn't know them. I don't know them._

He shakes his clenched fist. The knuckles sting lightly from how hard he hit Hogan. Not broken. He doubts he'll get more than mild bruising. They hit him. _They hit him._ How could they…? He and Loki have gotten into physical brawls. They're siblings. Beating each other is part of being brothers. But...he just...

He braces himself, teeth clenched and jaw tight, as he slowly turns around to face his younger brother.

Thor didn't hear him get up, but Loki is on his feet. His face hasn't regained any color, still looking faintly gray. His eyes are raw. Looking into them is like staring at an open, infected wound. His body is tense enough that if Thor shoved him, he'd tumble like a flat board.

Neither of them say anything. He doesn't know what _to._

His sibling's hand bounces, almost as if he's trying to decide whether or not to hit him.

"I didn't know," Thor finally croaks. He feels like he's confessing to a gruesome murder.

Loki's head turns slightly, ever so slightly, lips pushing into a thin line. Thor almost expects him to laugh and mock him. He startles more than he cares to admit when his brother instead makes a faintly pained noise. Thin threads of water spill from his eyes, despite what looks like his brother's best efforts to withhold them from their course. "I thought you did."

Thor feels like he's been gutted. _What?_ Air is pushed from him. "How could you…?"

The sorrow flickers away, ebbed with anger. Wet rage. It causes his brother's tongue to loosen. "Because you didn't give a damn about anything else! You heard what they would say about me. You would _join_ them! How on Helheim was I supposed to think that anything differently!?"

"You're my brother!"

"You say that like it means something."

 _What!?_ Thor feels incredulous. "It does. I would never have let them hurt you if I _knew!"_

That draws out the startled, vindictive laughter. His brother takes a wobbly step forward, tears still falling. " _I shouldn't,"_ his brother presses out, " _have to have told you._ We've spent thousands of hours with them. Weeks at a time. But you didn't see, because you're never _looking_ at me! Do you really think that they're the only ones to mock my titles? You know they all call me Snake Prince?"

His face drains of some color. Oh, Norns… _I started that._

But even if he feels disgusted with himself, it's secondary. Prominent is the feeling of a lightning bolt. Ready to strike at anything, splitting it, burning it. "Do you believe me to be omniscient? How am I supposed to know this if you won't _talk_ to me?"

Loki's hands flare out, indignant. "You think I haven't _tried?_ You're too busy basking in your glory. I am your shadow. I've _always_ been your shadow! Trailing behind you, _meaningless_. Norns, if I could have any of the respect you do…"

Thor makes a weird noise in his throat. "Then you can _have_ it! You say you are my shadow. You have no idea what it is to drown in the sun."

His brother scoffs.

Thor feels a deep-seated frustration. The urge to grab his brother's shoulders until their eyes meet and _shake_ him. _You don't understand! You mock my troubles and you don't understand._ "At least, where you stand, our father could care less about what you do. I don't have that luxury. Norns, you don't understand how your invisibility is a gift."

Thor's head swings to the side when Loki's fist collides with it. Blood pools onto his tongue when he bites on it, unexpecting the blow. His brother smacks two bony fists against his chest with enough strength air is forcefully pushed from him as he's knocked back a step. "I hate you." His brother's voice holds a desperation that belies his fury. "I _hate you!"_

Thor shoves him back, pushing his cold hands away. Loki staggers. When he's regained his breath, he pants, "Because you're _jealous_?"

_Allfathers, how could he ever be jealous of this?_

Loki's mouth parts wordlessly. His eyes are wild. He shakes his head in clear disbelief. He looks like he's reached the end of a very long rope; spent and emasculated. The energy buzzing through Thor refuses to let him reach the same state. Loki says nothing, jaw bunched, but it's clear he's reaching for something, _anything._

"You—" Thor starts to say. That's as far as he gets. A large shadow passes over them, swallowing the sun. Thor whips his head up, anger dead on the tip of his tongue as he spots the winged figure stretched out in the sky above them. Powerful scales covering the muscle frame. Sharp, piercing eyes. Horns.

He feels his lips part.

On the Nine, is that a _wyvern?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Probably mid-to-early November.


End file.
